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Title: Four Christmases Logan Echolls Never Had, And One He Probably Did (1/1)
Author: BuffyX
Pairing/Character: Logan POV. Some Logan/Lilly and Logan/Veronica.
Summary: MORE Christmas!fic, this time all AU. Takes place pre-series, during second season and post-series. You can make up your own timeline (though all scenarios are basically in chronological order).
Rating: R for language and some smut.
Spoilers/Warnings: Through the entire series, to be safe. Blah blah, I mention Lilly's killer, blah blah, mostly vague besides that, but whatever.




1. Logan wakes up first on Christmas morning, and he can’t help himself when he opens one of the gifts before everyone else comes downstairs, and when they do, his father doesn’t cuff him sharply on the back of the head and yell at him—instead he just shakes his head, chuckling in amusement as he says, “Boys will be boys.” Trina smiles at every gift she opens instead of throwing a tantrum over the fact that she didn’t get the Pretty Pony Princess Deluxe Castle & Stable. His mother has one glass of wine instead of eight.

Everyone is smiling and happy, and everything is soft and warm, and he is loved. And he keeps thinking Santa is real, because no one wants to tell him otherwise, and so he still believes, at least for another year.




2. Two days before Christmas, the Fearsome Foursome gather in Logan’s poolhouse to exchange gifts, since he’s the only one who, like, has two parents who are almost never ever home at all. He can’t really remember where they’re off to this time—blah blah press junket, blah blah no one cares. Who gives a fuck? Surely, not him.

Lilly’s the one who insists that it’s got to be the poolhouse, for whatever reason; he doesn’t even bother to argue with her, because when Lilly wants her way, she gets it. Once inside, she parades around, running her hands idly along the walls and the wood panels of the bookcase before flopping unceremoniously onto the bed. The way she presses her lips together makes him think she’s holding secrets in her mouth. It makes his stomach hurt. He’s probably just seeing things, he thinks.

“So where’s your dad, dude?” Duncan asks, sitting on the floor and leaning back on his palms.

“Isn’t he at some, like, junket in Manhattan or something?” Lilly questions. “God, I need to go there—can you imagine the shopping? It has to be fabulous.”

Logan gets that weird clenching feeling in his stomach again. “Did I tell you that?”

“Uh, yeah? Obviously.” She rolls her eyes and then tosses her gift into Veronica’s lap. “Here, you first, V.”

“Oh. Um, okay.” Veronica smiles a little nervously as she gently picks at the wrapping paper, turning the cylinder-shaped present over in her hands. It isn’t until she has it halfway off that all the color from her face drains.

Poor girl. Probably never saw it coming.

“Don’t you love it?” Lilly cackles, leaning forward excitedly.

“Lilly, you got me a…?”

“A vibrator, duh!” she finishes with glee. “Now that you and Duncan have decided not to be total prudes, it’s time to have a little fun, don’t you think?”

Veronica is staring down at the object and looking like she’s dying a little inside. Logan feels sorry for her, almost. Ever since she gave it up to Duncan at Shelly Pomroy’s party earlier this month, mostly due to Lilly’s constant badgering and too much cheap beer, he was sure, Lilly would not let up. Duncan just turns his head and stares at the wall like he’s pretending none of this is happening.

For Lilly, Veronica gives a framed photo of the two of them at the Pep Squad Car Wash Fundraiser. They have on those tight little matching uniforms and are standing with their arms around each other, cheeks pressed together, faces smiling brightly. Lilly seems to like it more than Logan would have expected, since her tolerance for sentimentality has always been low.

He gives Lilly an expensive handbag she’d been coveting; picking out her present was easy, since she’d made it blatantly clear that Logan get her the purse, or else. “Or else” usually translated into either no sex for a month, constant bitchiness, or being dumped by her. Again. Sometimes, all of the above. Duncan’s not too hard— he just picks up the Grand Theft Auto game that Celeste refuses to buy for him herself. Veronica is the trickiest, since they’re friends, yes, but not really close or anything. He gives her a soft turquoise-colored sweater, since it looks like her. Or something.

In return, he gets a mixed CD from Duncan and a set of funky shotglasses, and Veronica gives him a dark green journal and matching ball point pen.

“You said it was your favorite color,” she explains, and blushes hard when he looks at her. He’s surprised she had remembered something so small and obscure about him.

“Yeah, thanks,” he mumbles, and sets it down on the comforter.

“So Lilly, what are you giving him?” Veronica asks.

Lilly smirks and says, “I already gave it to him,” before straddling his lap and wrapping her arms around his neck. “Isn’t that right, baby?”

He pushes his palms against her hipbones and tries not to think about the last time they sat on this very bed like this. Tries not to think about how he had gone down on her and she ended up calling out a name that most definitely was not his. They’d ended up screaming at each other, and he’d called her a stupid slut and she’d raked her nails across his arm and made him fucking bleed before storming out.

Later she swore that the whole thing had been a joke, she just wanted to see how he’d react, she’d never cheated on him, she was his, she was his. She’d said it like that, even when they both knew that she never belonged to anyone, and he would always, always be hers, no matter what.

Maybe one day he would catch her in a lie. Maybe one day he’d grow some fucking balls and just say enough is enough, goddammit and actually follow through instead of crawling back to her, begging to be let back in days later. Today, however, would not be that day.

She tilts her mouth down and kisses him, and he kisses her back, pushes his tongue into her mouth like he can extract her secrets that way, like it could allow him to lay her out bare for all to see, all those dark corners and shut doors and dirty little secrets. Even though he knows it doesn’t work that way. He knows.

“Yup,” he affirms as Lilly’s mouth moves to his neck. “I have been filled with the holiday spirit.”

Veronica is staring because she always stares, like this kind of physicality is foreign to her, which it probably is. Duncan is still staring at the wall. How unsurprising.

Finally he stops staring long enough to give Veronica some shiny hair barrett thing and a bunch of roses, and she gives him some nice cologne, and they peck each other on the lips chastely in thanks, hands entangled. Sometimes, Logan thinks he’d prefer that kind of relationship—the genuine romance, the flowers and hearts and sweetness. But then he thinks about how Lilly’s gift to him was a blowjob in the girls’ bathroom last week, when they cut sixth, and then after he fucked her in the back of the X-Terra for another two hours.

Yeah, Logan can’t kid himself; he’s got the better deal.




3. He sneaks into her room at one o’clock in the morning with an open bottle of Chardonnay and a condom in his pocket. The door has barely clicked shut before she’s pressed up against him, smiling against his lips, fingers curling around his shirt collar and half-dragging him into her bed.

That night, he undresses her carefully, peeling each layer off one by one. Veronica keeps giggling, and he keeps trying to muffle her sounds with kisses so her father doesn’t hear through the thin walls. She just laughs into his mouth, instead, and wriggles out of her pajama bottoms.

His hand slips up into the slick heat between her thighs, and then later he slides himself inside her, and then she drops kisses onto his chest like snowflakes and makes all kinds of wonderful sounds, little whimpers and murmurs. In-between sharp gasps, she breathes, Iloveyou don’tstop IloveyouIloveyou ohgodplease Iloveyou.

It doesn’t matter if she doesn’t mean it; it’s still the most beautiful lie he’s ever been told.

He falls asleep and dreams of being trapped in a snowglobe, but it’s not like other dreams he’s had where he’s trapped, because in this one he’s with her, and everything is quiet and peaceful and still, except for the snow descending around them.

Logan wakes up on Christmas morning with her legs tangled in his and believing in something, something, with painful intensity. He’s not sure what.




4. It’s nine o’clock on Christmas Eve, and he’s way too fucking sober, so he kicks back a few shots and flips the channel and watches that one movie with the kid who accepts the dare and sticks his tongue to the frozen pole like a complete moron. Of course, all he can think about is Lilly, and his father, and so he turns the volume up on the television like that’ll drive it out of his head.

His phone rings at ten, and he picks up without checking who it is.

“Merry Christmas, dumbass,” Trina says. “How’s my darling little brother?”

“Fanfuckingtastic,” he replies. “And how’s Cabo, whorebag?”

“The usual. Last week I saw Jessica Simpson doing blow off of Tara Reid’s ass in the VIP room of Troppo’s. Oh, and Jared Leto definitely finger-fucked Lindsay Lohan in the bathroom.”

“Thrilling.”

“Well, I’ll be back in Cali in two weeks—I’ve got this function in L.A., and then I’ll have a few days free, so maybe you can fly out.”

“Or maybe I can go shoot myself in the head,” he tells her dryly, but the line is crackling static and he knows she doesn’t hear him.

“What?” she says loudly. “I can’t hear you. Ugh, stupid phone. Whatever. Look, we’ll talk later.”

Trina hangs up without saying goodbye, and he sits around getting drunk and half-watching the kid trying to scheme his way into getting a Red Ryder and half-watching his cell to see if he gets any other calls. Duncan doesn’t even text him, and there’s no one else who would call, or who he wants to call; for a few brief seconds he contemplates calling her, but then he remembers that a) she doesn’t want anything to do with him, b) he is basically fed up with her anyway, and c) he is definitely not inebriated enough to start drunk-dialing. He chalks the impulse up to his undeniable masochism.

Logan’s drowsy and smashed and he fades into sleep just as the boy almost shoots his eye out with the beebee gun. He dreams in grainy colors about Lilly and his dad and moaning and orgasms, and he wakes up with sweat on his forehead and a hard-on under his jeans. Fuck.

“FUCK!” he says out loud, and proceeds to get more shit-faced.

When he opens his eyes on Christmas morning, his head is throbbing and his stomach hurts and the tv is on too loud. He has a hangover and he hates everything and he is alone. Which is, you know. Pretty much the same as every other damn day of his life.

“Merry fucking Christmas,” he sneers, to no one in particular, and thinks of all the ways he could kill himself without having to get off the couch.




5. He’s alone for another holiday and this time he calls Veronica, even though he shouldn’t, but fuck it. She’s just becoming big in D.C. these days, ever since she graduated from Herst and interned at Newsweek. A few months ago, her monumental expose on Tom DeLay’s secret child porno collection became her big breakthrough. Investigative reporting—it suits her. It makes sense.

“Yeah?” Veronica picks up on the third ring, answering in that brisk voice of hers. These days, she’s always on the go, can never stay still. She still hasn’t stopped running.

For a few seconds Logan can’t think of anything to say. He just sits at his kitchen table with a bottle of beer in front of him, his head resting in one hand and the other holding the phone to his ear.

“Look, I have caller ID, so I know it’s you, Logan,” she says after a long silence. “You can drop the whole creepy silent mouth-breather thing. It’s really annoying.”

“Okay,” he says. “Where are you?”

“Neptune airport,” she tells him. “Home for the holidays. And you?”

“Still in New York.” He looks out the window and watches the snow falling down. He used to think that a white Christmas would be something like romantic; now that it’s his reality, he hates it. He’s never been able to grow used to the cold.

Logan dropped out of USC a semester-and-a-half in, after his father finally got the lethal injection and the inheritance came through. He took the money and decided to go far, far away. He shacked up in NYC and had spent the past two years mostly fucking around doing nothing. A few publishers approached him, offering book deals, but he told them all to fuck off, every time. Sometimes, Veronica would come and visit and they’d accidentally get too drunk and accidentally sleep together and then she’d yell at him to grow up, that it wasn’t her responsibility to save him, especially if he wouldn’t even try. She would leave, and it would be like she’d never been there at all.

Those visits had been few and far between in the last couple of months. Her career was steadily building and he was steadily going nowhere, something she had no problem reminding him of rather bluntly, when she did take the time to call these days. Their off-and-on-again relationship had been switched to off, for the time being.

“I miss you,” he blurts out without meaning to. However, it’s not as bad as some of the other profoundly stupid things running through his mind, like: I want to run away with you. I want to change your world. I want to change my world. I want to make you feel alive.

Veronica sighs audbily, but without seeing her facial expression, he can’t tell what kind of sigh it is. She could be nostalgic (unlikely), sad (possible), or just plain exasperated (ding ding we have a winner).

“I’ll be here all week,” she tells him, which takes him by surprise. “If you want, fly out. We’ll catch up.”

“So… how will that end?” he questions. “A torrid affair? Involuntary castration? Pouring our hearts out over cocktails like mature adults?”

It’s almost as if he can hear her smiling over the phone. “No, no, and maybe. We’ll see. You know where to find me.”

She hangs up, and he keeps the phone to his ear for awhile, and thinks that yes, he always will know how to get to her, admist all the chaos and awfulness and fucked-upedness of his life, even when she’s the last thing he wants to find.

It’s the one thing he’s been able to count on.


++end

A/N: I wrote this all tonight, because I've been listening to too much Wilco, clearly. Anyway, I haven't checked this as well as I usually would, because I am a) really tired and b) really lazy. And I need to go to bed. So goodnight, and please forgive me for spelling/grammar errors, they come for my tiredness, not actual lack of intelligence. I think.

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