This is the end of this story, which I have enjoyed immensely, even tho it has been so dark, much darker than I usually write. It occurred to me today that is probably because I wrote most of it in Barnes and Noble after the hurricane, when I had no electricty at home. That was a very unusual time, and also kind of uneasy and dark (literally).

But now I am back with a Christmas story I hope everybody has found, and the latest news is that I have decided to write a sequel. I have three days to finish my NaNo (only 5,000 words to go, yipppeeeee!) and then I will start this new story, which will also be a one shot LG fluff, the same events (and beyond) from Gordo's POV.

Anyway, hope everyone had a great Thanksgiving, and looking forward to some happy holidays! Christy

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The house was quiet. Mrs. Albano had gone to bed, and as was her custom, Veruca tip-toed upstairs, stood outside her bedroom door and whispered, "Mom…Mom…I'm home…"

From inside the room her mother answered groggily, "That's nice, dear. Have you locked the front door?"

"Yes, it's locked. Hey, Mom, Ethan's with me. Would it be okay if he crashes on the couch?"

"Sure, honey. Just make sure he calls his folks and they know where he is, okay? I wouldn't want them to worry about him."

"Sure, Mom. Thanks. See you in the morning."

Veruca came back downstairs and saw Ethan sitting quietly in the middle of the couch. "It's okay," she said. "She just said to make sure you call your parents and let them know where you are."

Ethan brooded a moment, then said, "Let's not, and say we did."

"Ethan…come on. She doesn't want them to worry about you."

Ethan snorted. "As if that would ever happen," he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

"Ethan, come on. It's her only condition. Just do it. If you won't do it for your parents, at least do it for my mom. You know she likes you. She believes in you, she has faith in you. Do it for her. Do it for me."

Ethan sighed and accepted Veruca's outstretched cell phone. He dialed in the dark. In a moment he said, shortly, "I'm spending the night at Rookey's. Call her house if you need me. Bye."

By the tone of his voice, it was clear he had left a message, not actually talked to either his mom or dad. "There!" he said. "Are you satisfied now? Fuckin' three o'clock in the morning and he's not even wondering where the hell I am. He's too busy fuckin' his fuckin' girlfriend. He doesn't even give a shit where I am."

Veruca sat down beside Ethan and took his hand. There was nothing she could say to make this better. There was nothing she could do but sit here beside him, and let him know that even if his parents didn't give a shit, she did.

Then suddenly Ethan said, "Rookey? Would you…would you do my hair?"

"Now?"

"Yeah. I know it's late but---"

"Yes, let's do it, Ethe," she said, jumping up. "Let's do it right now!"

They went upstairs, closed her bedroom door, and Ethan took off his shirt. Veruca changed into her old Scooby Doo pajamas, that she didn't care if they got ruined, and went right for her box of hair supplies. "I still have a lot of blue left," she announced.

"I don't want blue anymore," Ethan said with certainly. "Blue was for when I was black and blue, bruised. But I feel way past that now. Now I need red. Red for blood. Because my heart is broken, and it's bleeding. I need red. Will you do my hair in red?"

Veruca felt like she wanted to cry, hearing that his heart was broken and bleeding. How much of it was from Lizzie? How much of it was from his parents? How much of it was from life in general? As long as none of it came from her, she knew there was nothing she could do but comply, "Sure, Ethe. Let's do it in red." She didn't even make any cracks about the Bobsie Twins, whoever they were.

They went into her bright bathroom and Veruca had to stand on a stepstool to reach all his hair, carefully picking up all the blue strands and rebleaching them. As they waited for the bleach to take, they smoked another joint, but this one did not have them as jovial as earlier in the evening. If anything, they both felt more sober than ever before.

In a little while they were back in the bathroom, Veruca again on the stepstool, applying the red in thick gobs that looked like clumps of blood.

"This is good," Ethan said, looking at himself in the mirror. "This is really…really good. This is me. This is how I feel. To thine own self be true…"

Veruca looked at his reflection in the mirror. Ethan was tall, pale, yet muscular, and as much as she hated to admit it, his nipple rings were very sexy. Ethan caught her checking out his nipple rings and he had to laugh.

"You know, Rookey, it's really too bad."

"Too bad about what?" she asked his image in the mirror.

"Too bad about you and me, that it's just not there. Because if it was…if it was…we could be having so much fun right now."

Veruca smacked him. "How can you even think something like that?"

"'Cos I'm a guy!" he exclaimed, defending himself. "And I think about sex all the time. I can't help it. It's what guys do. Only I don't do it with you. Honestly. At least not usually. Only when I'm high and I'm depressed. Like now."

She smacked him again. "Well, snap out of it, Craft! Because that's not happening. I'm not risking our perfectly good friendship for some brief moment that you probably wouldn't even remember in the morning."

"And I wouldn't ask you to," Ethan said. "Besides, I know you. You're saving it, aren't you? You're saving it…for Larry Tudgeman, aren't you?"

Now she smacked him again, harder than before, and at last they were laughing, and if felt good to finally be laughing again.

Somehow, when it was all over, Veruca had red hair dye on her Scooby Doo pajamas and they were ruined, but she didn't care. She only cared that she had heard Ethan laughing again.

The laughing had felt good, but the exertion of energy seemed to suddenly bring to Veruca's mind that it was now closer to four a.m. than three a.m., and she wanted to get some sleep.

"Okay, listen, Ethe, I'm going to bed. You're on your own. When this little timer goes off, you rinse your hair out in the sink. After that, you can use the blowdryer if you want."

"It won't wake up your mom?"

"It might."

"Then I won't use it. I wouldn't want to wake your mom. She's a nice lady. I like her."

"Don't start liking her too much," Veruca reminded. "And remember, put your shirt back on when you leave my room. I don't want her seeing you like that."

"I don't think I will," Ethan said, teasing her. "In fact, I think what I'll do is walk right into your mom's room and ask her to pull on my nipple rings a bit."

"Ethan! You're sick!"

"Hey! If you can date Larry Tudgeman, why can't I have a thing with your mom? Anarchy, man! That's what it's all about!"

"Ethan, I don't know if I'm so tired I'm not hearing any of this conversation correctly, or maybe I'm dreaming already. But I'm going to sleep, and when I wake up in the morning, I expect the world to seem a lot more normal than it does right now."

Ethan tucked Veruca into bed, kissed her cheek and turned off the light. Then he went back into her brightly lit bathroom and stared at the little timer. Three minutes…two and half….it seemed to take so long. Two minutes…ninety seconds…forty five…

Counting down. Waiting for something to happen. What was he waiting for? Waiting to rinse out his hair? Waiting for Lizzie to come to her senses and love him again? Maybe he was waiting for his parents to give a shit about him. Fuck! He could be waiting a long, long time.

The bell rang. He ran the water, he rinsed his hair, he scrunched it out with a big fluffy towel. Then he leaned against the bathroom counter and stared at himself in the mirror.

He wouldn't use the blowdryer. He didn't want to wake Veruca's mother. She was alright. He certainly wasn't going to ask her to pull on his nipple rings, but he wouldn't mind taking her up on her offer to crash here as often as he needed to. It was nice to have somewhere to go, somewhere where somebody's parent seemed to give a shit about him, even if it wasn't actually his parent.

He stood in the brightly lit bathroom, drowning in the silence, watching his hair dry. He still felt slightly stoned as he continued staring at his face in the mirror for some undetermined amount of time. His face was a good face, though now it was marred by a lack of sleep, and black eyeliner streaking down his cheeks. His face was also marred by an intense sadness. It hadn't always been there. How had it gotten there? And more importantly, how could he get rid of it?

He didn't know, but he did know he had plenty of time to contemplate the question as he stood here for minutes on end, watching his hair dry. Now it was nearly four thirty. He'd been standing here nearly a half hour, watching his hair dry, and he didn't have the first fucking clue how to get rid of the sadness.

But he did note with some satisfaction that he was beginning to be able to see the red in his hair. It was strong, it was vivid . It looked good. It looked true. It looked like streams of blood, dripping from his battered, broken heart.

It looked like he felt.

To thine own self be true…