Logan clenches the magazine in his hands, the slick paper nearly tearing with the force of his grip as he stares at Entertainment Weekly's "Hollywood's Pregnant Beauties" article.

It couldn't be.

It couldn't be.

And yet, it could be since he has compelling evidence. Pictorial evidence, nonetheless. The symmetry and irony, oh what a cruel bitch, chokes him, though a minute later he realizes it was more the combination of laughter and tears than an ethereal concept of Karma. He tries to stick it back onto the rack he found it on, but it floats to the ground instead. He ignores it in favor of rifling through his pockets.

For a moment he misses the sure touch of raised buttons beneath his sensitive fingertips as he presses the correct sequence of numbers on the slick screen; he is old school enough to memorize numbers in the off chance his i-Phone is stolen or lost. He raises the cell to his ear, listening for the three rings, and then his breath catches when she answers.

"So I guess you saw the article, huh?"

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"What makes you think it's yours?"

Logan scoffs, the sound welling from his soul. He knows because he knows. That's all the proof he needs.

"I can count, you know."

Silence, then a tiny sigh. She won't actually say the words, no, never acknowledge the truth if she can skillfully evade through omission, but Logan knows he has her. He has her.

"We promised it wouldn't mean a thing."

Of course not, as they were – are – in relationships with other people, other names mashed with theirs in stupid portmanteaus that mean even less than the ridiculously ornate promise ring on her finger. He'd enjoyed the feel of it sliding against his dick when she jacked him in the elevator seven months ago, knowing his juice was soaking into the precious stones, a sly reminder of him. He came over that hand again and again during the weekend they recklessly spent together, imprinting himself as thoroughly on her as he dared. The world would think they were cheating on their significant others, but no. They were returning to where they belonged, always belonged, even if only for the minute. They cheated on each other with everyone else.

"Are you having a boy or a girl?"

"We – I – don't know," she instantly corrects herself. "I wanted it to be a surprise."

"I'm sure the first test was a surprise."

Her chuckle is surprisingly carefree. He yearns to rub his lips across her throat, lick the sweet spot beneath her right ear, and feel their child kick in her womb.

"He doesn't know."

Logan rolls his eyes because duh. None of them ever know. His women usually find out because he's indiscreet enough to get caught but he then has no shame; he's only marking time until her will crumbles again. She, on the other hand, still clings to her illusions of being nothing like her mother or Lilly. He enjoys it, loves the guilt and rage it engenders in her when he slips beneath her prim dresses, lifts her skirts to reveal the sexy sheer underwear he gifts her. By the time he's done, her protestations against marking her beautiful skin quiets as she becomes a wanton sprawl of soft thighs and welcoming arms beneath him.

"I want our baby," he demands. The time for her willful blindness is gone. He has allowed her to sow her wild oats; she will accept his loving dominion this time.

"I know," she easily acquiesces for the first time in their wonderfully terrible history. "I'm already packed. Come and get me please."

A/N: Yes, in case you're wondering it is Veronica he's talking to. This ficlet was inspired by two things: a) The first time I saw a picture of Kristen Bell preggers b) the lyrics of "Glyercine" by Bush. I should be ashamed of myself because they created life while technically with other people, but the plot bunny is above such moral dilemmas.