A/N: Okay, last chance to weigh in. I put up a poll on my profile, asking all of you, dear readers, who you think beat Logan up. If this story were more comedy than drama, the answer would be "all of the above." Kicking myself a little for not including that option. Anyhow, if you haven't voted yet, go do that. Put your money where your mouth is *money, what money?* and prove to me that YOU knew all along!

To those of you who have expressed the sentiment that you only read this story for Rory and Jess interaction, and really don't want to read about everybody else, feel free to skip this chapter. Believe me, I love Literati every bit as much as you do. Truly, I do. But, when I started this story, I promised myself not to take any short-cuts. Everybody gets their turn, and a fair hearing (at least everybody who plays an important role in the story). So *sigh* this chapter is part of keeping that promise to myself.

Trust me, this story will have lots and lots of interaction between Rory and Jess. But, if I rushed it, the entire meaning of the story would be lost.

Hope you all enjoy. I didn't hate this chapter nearly as much as I thought I would. I'm actually rather proud of it. So, let me know your opinion. Thanks!

Chapter 21 - Broken Glass

The evening before the moving day…

Logan taped boxes. He'd been filling and taping and labeling boxes throughout most of the day - boxing up the last seven…nearly eight years of his life. Stowing away memories. Packing dreams in newspaper. Encompassing a shared existence in cardboard. The wedding. The albums. Would she even want them? Like everything else, almost everything else, it wasn't just hers. It was his too. It was theirs. What did this mean? Was this a divorce? Was she divorcing him? This was what people did when they got divorced. Everything that had been 'ours' became 'mine' and 'yours.' Everything. A shot of cold fear went through his heart. Would he ever see Trevor or Chase again? Would he ever see them again?

"…the moment that you start hurting our children, Logan, I will be gone, WE will be gone, so fast it'll make your head spin! And, don't even BOTHER to ask me to come back!"

'Mine.' 'Yours.' She wasn't coming back. A judge would decide. A judge would decide whether he would ever see his children again.

"…the moment that you start hurting our children, Logan…"

He didn't deserve to see them again.

Her words…those words… haunted him.

"…the moment that you start hurting our children, Logan…"

If he'd hurt them badly enough for Rory to leave, he didn't deserve to see them again. His mind swirled back into the dark, blankness of that night. He'd tried so hard to remember…to remember something. Something. When he'd cleaned up the glass, there was blood on the floor. He'd told himself that it was his own blood. His foot. He stepped on the glass and it bled. Please, please tell me it's my blood…just my blood…please…please…

Stop. All of this has to be boxed and ready by tomorrow morning. Unless I have a death wish, it has to be boxed up and moved into the garage, and I have to… Unless I have a death wish… unless… I said, stop! Keep packing. Stop thinking. Keep packing. Just keep-

Pounding. Someone was pounding on the door. It was an Open in the name of the law! kind of pounding. Did you say something about a death wish? He stood and walked to the door anyway. What else was he gonna do?

Death wish or not, he hadn't anticipated a fist crashing through the doorway before he'd gotten the door half open…before he even knew who was- He was on the ground, ears ringing. He was on his feet again, not under his own power, and received another two blows to the face before he could properly register which of his wife's defenders was delivering the beating. Just as it had killed him to hear the condemnation of Richard Gilmore, another small piece of Logan died as he recognized his assailant. The blows were brutal and many, and Logan sank back from them, head almost bowed, fists deliberately at his sides. The man had every right. Every right to finish him off, if it came to that.

Strong hands cuffed him by the collar and brought him close to snarling lips. There were equal amounts pain and rage in Christopher Hayden's eyes.

"HOW COULD YOU?" he demanded. "I thought you loved her! I thought you loved my daughter! What kind of lowlife scum beats his wife and kids, huh?" Logan's eyes shut tight and his lips were drawn in tightly concentrated hurt. Clearly, the words were far harder to take than blows, though he argued against neither. "How long have you been hurting them? How long? How long has my little girl been getting hit by the man she trusted and loved? Just how much damage have you done? Did it start right after the wedding? Or has it been going on even longer? Did you beat her back when she was just your girlfriend? Back when you were in college, maybe? Just how long have you been making an idiot outta me? How long have I been telling my daughter how lucky she is to have a guy like you who loves her and takes care of her, while you were turning her into a battered wife? Abusing her? Making her cower in fear? HOW LONG?"

Logan wanted to tell him that it hadn't been like that. That he'd never done such a thing. That he never would. In his heart, he believed it. He'd never hurt Rory on purpose. He did love her. When he hit her it was when he was out of his head, and when he said he was sorry, he meant it. He meant it. It didn't matter, but he meant it. And, no, it hadn't been going on that long. What had been going on, hadn't been going on long. Not really.

Christopher had unhanded him and he stumbled back several steps, stopping when he hit the wall, crumpling against it. He tried to muster an answer. Some kind of an answer.

His eyes wandered the ceiling, the spectacular golden monstrosity of a ceiling. He heard Rory's little-girl voice exclaiming over it in wonder, "Have you -seen- this ceiling?" A large, hollow portion of him wished he'd never brought her into this house. Opulent palace of alcohol and screaming and coldness and pain. He saw the dress she wore to that first dinner in his mind's eye - pale blue, petal soft. Delicate flower. Why did he bring her here to wilt? Better in Stars Hollow's perpetual springtime, Yale's brisk autumn, California's summer sun and salt air. Not these cold, stale, breathless rooms of ice and suffocating winter.

"I never hit Rory till after my dad died." It answered the 'how long.' Nothing could answer the 'how could you.' He knew that. "I won't bother making excuses. There aren't any. I do love her. I don't expect you to believe that. But, I do."

…-x*x-x*x-x*x-…

A few hours earlier…

"Say something, Chris," Lorelai said after a very long silence. "Chris…are you there?" How long has it been since long-distance phone calls ceased to matter? They don't cost more. It just means the person is farther away. It just means that if you hopped in your car, it would take longer to get there. Neither of them was about to hop in their car. Even if some conversations just shouldn't take place on the phone.

"I'm here," he said numbly after a few more seconds. What good did here do, when he hadn't been there? Why could he now visualize her as eight years old, in a pink leotard and a tutu, graceful arms above her head, blunt toes tattooing a perfect pirouette? Clearly as if she were standing there in front of him, the soft curve of her ivory and rose petal cheek, the huge crystal blue eyes…those eyes that held all his guilt…always had. The little ballerina with the haunting eyes looked through him as if he wasn't there…because he never had been.

"Chris, you c-"

"How long has this been going on, Lor?" he asked in a husky monotone. His eyes looked like those of a kicked pup, too whipped to even yelp in pain. She couldn't see them, but she could hear those eyes in his voice…see the weak, injured set of his lower lip, know that he was in pain.

"I don't know, Chris. She hasn't…she hasn't wanted to talk about it." He nodded, though she certainly couldn't hear it through the phone. "She did say it was the first time he'd hit one of the kids, though. So, at least…" Silence reclaimed the conversation. Rory was the one thing they could usually talk about, but this was different. This was a fresh wound. This was the unthinkable. "What are you thinking?"

The horse she fell off of when she was ten. She never got back on. The braces put on her teeth when she was twelve, so that everything about her could be as perfect as it always had been, always would be. The spelling bee. She'd wanted him there. The daddy/daughter dance when she was twelve. Snowed in, as if Lorelai would ever believe it. The piano recital. The box of cards marked "return to sender" that she'd carefully saved up until she saw him again.

His eyes shut tight.

"Thinking?" He expelled a breath of air in what was almost a laugh. "Oh, you mean other than ways to dislodge his head from his body, what am I thinking? Well…well, for starters, I'm thinking…what an enormous screw-up I am as a father, along with everything else! That's about what I'm thinking."

"Chris, no!" she tried to stop him from participating in what seemed to be the biggest self-blame-game of the decade.

"Yeah, Lor!" he contradicted. It wasn't enough. All those past failures hadn't added up to enough of a blight on his little girl's existence. Now, when they'd been "good," when he'd been there for her and proven himself in every way that he knew how, for years now - college tuition, following her writing obsessively, popping up unexpectedly at various stops along the campaign trail just to put a smile on her face, visits and phone calls, help with the down payment so they could get the place they wanted in L.A. close to her work and his, hugs and long talks and walks along the beach when he came to see them, making sure he really got to know the kids, no matter the distance...now, he was faced with what could be the worst failure of all.

"Chris, honey, all of us feel like we should have seen this coming, and we should've stopped it somehow. But, really-"

"I pushed this, Lor!" he interrupted in agitation. "This was the guy I said was really the one! I told her she should give him a chance…even if he walked away from her before, it was for the best! His intentions were good! And you know why I said that, Lor? Why I thought that? Because in him, I saw me!"

"Chris…"

"I mean, here's a guy who didn't want to become the head honcho of his dad's business, struck out on his own, moved to California, started up his own company, played by his own rules - he stuck it to the man, and he won! Unlike me, he actually made it! And, he went after Rory Gilmore, the prettiest, most independent, ambitious girl that a man could ever dream of, and he won there too! He got his Lorelai…"

"Chris…" It came out softer.

"He got the girl, Lor." Christopher Hayden suddenly sounded absolutely exhausted. "Got her and kept her…" His voice turned almost to a whisper. "He was livin' the dream." He was quiet for a moment. "And it felt like…a little piece of me didn't lose after all." He didn't have to see the other end of the phone to know that she was silently cringing for him.

"And, what does he do?" Christopher continued bitterly. "Drowns himself in booze and starts hitting my little girl?…and their kids?" His head bowed as these last words came out broken. So did the ones that followed. "Tell me, Lor…'cause you're probably the only one who knows…is that me?"

"What?…Chris, no. Sweetie, what are you talking about? That's crazy!" she exclaimed, incredulous.

"Is it?" His voice was halting. "I don't know anymore."

"Chris. Where is this coming from? Just because you…" Lorelai trailed off, trying to figure out how to pull him off of this damaging, illogical detour his mind had taken. "Just because you liked the guy, just because he reminded you of you, doesn't mean…doesn't mean a thing, really! Come on…you wouldn't hurt a fly, Chris! And…I drink more than you do! Don't lay that on yourself - any of it. Because, believe me, Rory would not have married him just because you told her to. She's got her own mind. She always has. I wish I hadn't had to tell you any of this. But, you're her dad, and you need to know."

"Of course. What can I do, Lor? I can't - I can't fix this, but there's gotta be something I can do."

"There is. Tomorrow. She's gonna be moving. Bring your big, strong muscles. Give her a big hug, and help carry her heavy furniture…and her books. Sheesh! She'll need a moving van just for books, I'm sure!" She heard a noise that told her he was smiling a little at this.

"Yeah. Okay. I'll bring the muscles."

"And, stop it with the twisted thoughts." He was quiet. "You equals, nice guy. Logan equals, slime of the earth, jerk faced tarantula!"

"Jerk faced tarantula?" Chris sounded amused.

"Well, Mikey might be listening. If he called somebody a jerk faced tarantula, he wouldn't be in too much trouble," she explained. He laughed a little at this.

"Give Rory and the boys a hug for me tonight," he requested. "I'll give 'em one myself tomorrow."

"Will do."

…-x*x-x*x-x*x-…

Chris let out a derisive puff through his nostrils that was something close to a laugh, though nothing of his expression expressed laughter…only bitter pain.

"You love her?" He swallowed and looked away from the fallen young hero, somewhere near the foot of the stairs. "That's the way you treat a woman you love?" Logan's eyes closed.

"Look…don't you think I know how badly I messed up? Don't you think…I know…that I have hurt Rory on every level you can imagine? Don't you think I know that I've completely wrecked my kids' lives? I have nothing left. I've destroyed the trust and respect of everyone that I've ever counted as a friend." He stopped, and Christopher stood their silent. For some seconds they both were silent. "Do you think I didn't fight this?" he asked quietly. "It's taken everything from me." His voice took on an uncharacteristic gravel. "Do you think I didn't fight it with every ounce of strength I had in me?" As the question finished, he seemed to lose whatever strength held him partially upright, laying there on the marble floor, propped slightly against the wall. He went limp in utter defeat.

Christopher looked down at him. There was no remnant of the dignified young man he thought of as his son…not a shred. He was broken. Shambles. He was bleeding profusely from the mouth, and already his left eye had the beginning of what would doubtless be a terrible shiner. Bad as it was, Christopher had been unable to hit him as much as he felt he deserved. There's something about hitting a guy who won't hit back, who stands there cowed as if he knows he has it coming. No matter how angry you are, you just can't keep it up. The same held true for verbal assault…the whole concept of kicking a guy when he's down. And this was about as far down as it got. Again Chris look away, expelling a tense breath without unlocking his jaws.

He strode out of the entryway, past the small mountain of boxes, to the kitchen - soaked a dishcloth in cold water. He came back, crouching down next to Logan beside the ornate wood paneling. He bounced slowly and shallowly on his knees, brow furrowed as if he were deciding something. His tongue worked at the grooves of his teeth as he scanned the face before him. Logan's eyes never met his. Finally, he too glanced at the veins in the floor, seeing wisps of smoke and thinking of a phoenix. When he looked up, Logan was regarding him through narrowed eyes, unsure, and a little afraid. Christopher maintained the intent gaze and held out the cold, wet cloth to his son-in-law whose eyes widened at the gesture. Christopher pointed to the corner of his own mouth, indicating where the blood needed to be sopped up. Logan took the cloth gratefully, though humiliation caused him to look down at the floor as he wiped the blood away and held the cloth to his lip as a compress to stop the bleeding.

"There's nothing I can possibly do to fix this," he stated without looking up from the floor.

Christopher looked around at the wreckage, both literal and symbolic. He's right. Can't be fixed. Nothing you can do but sweep up the broken glass and keep moving forward, he thought. He let out another puff, scoffing at himself and shaking his head. He froze and his eyes snapped up to Logan lying there. He set his jaw and stood up, extending his hand. Logan stared at it with a combination of puzzlement and disbelief. But, after a few long seconds, he accepted the hand and Christopher pulled him to his feet. Immediately afterward, Christopher turned his back and walked from the room. Logan limped behind, following, uncertain. They came to the pile of boxes. Christopher sighed internally, reached down and then handed Logan the packing tape. Logan swallowed and took it.

…-x*x-x*x-x*x-…

By the time all of the boxes were in the garage and a list had been made of what furniture, etc. could be taken from the house, the sun was starting to come up. Neither had stopped to rest all night and neither had spoken. After the last box, Logan stood there, bone-weary.

"That's it," he nodded, hardly more than a whisper. Christopher heaved a sigh. The job was done. Logan looked at him, unable to show how much… what it meant… "Thanks," he said weakly. Chris looked at him for a long moment, eyes eloquent. There were no words. It was a bitter, reluctant goodbye. At last he looked down, contemplated the concrete for a moment, turned and walked away.

A/N: I resisted the urge, prompted by a reviewer who commented that Dean left the "moving party" abruptly and perhaps he was on his way to go beat Logan up, to have Dean show up on Logan's doorstep that evening, only to find out that Christopher had "beaten him to the punch"…literally. Firstly, that would have been a little too "punny," and secondly, at this point, I can't honestly say that I think he would. But, if you prefer to believe that's exactly what happened, or even that he threw a few punches of his own, I give you leave to imagine it that way. ;-)