at the edge of the ocean, we can start over again
It had been a long, long time since Veronica Mars had last been able to smile and say that life was good, meaning it wholeheartedly.
The last eleven months had seen her through ups and downs, new friends and new family, boyfriends and breakups, and there had been points when she had been made to admit that it was all gradually getting better. Before Tabula Rasa, she had spent two years wanting to go -- either back in time or just to make it long enough to graduate and leave for good. Sticking it out through the lies and the backstabbing had never been the question, but Stanford had been the light at the end of the tunnel -- a place that wasn't Neptune, a blank slate to call her own. For the first four months, even through the cloud of longing for her dad and home, she had thought maybe the island could be that.
Maybe the slate was cleaner than before, but for the first time she was relieved to find it hadn't been completely wiped off. With Lilly, Duncan, Wallace, and now her dad here, Veronica had everything she wanted from home but her dog and all of Stanford University. And maybe a Starbucks. And some Mexican food or Italian. And a way to permanently remove Logan Echolls from the island that wouldn't result in her sharing a cell with Lord "Call Me Tom" Voldemort. Aside from those small things, though -- well, life was good.
She was going to be an adopted aunt, she was sharing a room with her best friend, and her dad had shown up in time for Christmas. Things could get better, sure. There were issues Veronica still didn't want to think about, songs she still didn't want the jukebox to play, and the lingering concern that Lilly really was going to make an attempt at sewing that would result in some interesting injuries. But the things bothering her these days were a far cry from the big murder, small town, whodunnit, Nancy-Drew-by-the-sea worries of yesteryear -- and she wasn't about to complain.
And on top of all that, the kitchen had somehow conspired to provide her with hot chocolate.
You could say what you wanted about the real thing; Veronica was a fan of the brown powder packet stuff with the tiny marshmallows. There had been a big urn on the counter, thick with rich, sweet smelling liquid, but the temptation had been cut off when she spotted a box of Swiss Miss.
Now she was in the rec room, hands wrapped around the mug for warmth, looking over the new copy of the Tabula Rasa Times. Okay, so William had got her age wrong (and who had ever complained about the press shaving off a year?) -- there was still something fascinating about seeing her name in print with the words "Penguins are kind of cool." And she was just longing to show her dad the article listing the new council members. Even in his absence, she had done the Mars name proud.
The clothes bin was providing warm clothes, but the grey long-sleeved shirt she had pulled on over her tank top was majorly over-sized. It was a comfortable compromise, though, and the price you paid for being petite. She hadn't seen the mistletoe yet -- Veronica guessed it was off somewhere stalking Chase again -- and, for the first time in a couple weeks, the jukebox's Christmas cheer wasn't getting on her nerves.