A Joy You Can't Keep In

And, dreaming, pick up from

The last place we left off

-Set Fire to the Third Bar, Snow Patrol

He has been home for five days when he is finally released on leave by the Navy. He surprises her with lunch at the office, and when they stumble in the doorway of her father's house, they are disheveled and groping like teenagers. She tries not to be embarrassed when the sound of her father clearing his throat cuts through the haze like the scratching of a phonograph needle. They freeze; her forehead drops to his chest, and his chin hits the top of her head. For a long moment, no one moves.

"You realize that I can still see you, right?" comes her father's dry voice. She lets go of Logan's sleeves, and turns with a pained smile.

"Hi, Dad. Sorry about that."

"How is it exactly that you still live with your father?"

"I'm afraid that aiding his recovery would still have trumped sexytimes with you, had you even been here. As you weren't, there was no real reason to go."

"Then." Logan says meaningfully, pressing his point.

"Hello! Your father. The one who fed you and changed your diapers. He is still in the room," Keith Mars says, gesturing at himself.

"See, Veronica," Logan points out in the hushed voice of a guide on a safari. "That right there is what they call 'incentive'."

"Incentive to do what exactly?"

Logan opens his mouth to speak, but pauses, and shoots her a somewhat wary look.

"If I, in any way, mention getting a place where you would not live with your father, and I would not reside with Dick Casablancas in any capacity, would that freak you out? If so, that is not what I'm trying to indicate at all."

In fact, it does inject a frisson of fear up her spine, even as she knows that she is being ridiculous. What of the intimacies they've exchanged, the things they've said to each other while he was gone? Somehow, having him here in the flesh, and having decisions moved from a nebulous point in the future to now, is both thrilling and terrifying at the same time.

"Couldn't I just come over, and stay with you and Dick?"

"You could, if I lived there."

"You don't live there?"

"These are the types of conversations that normal people have before they make babies together," her father says, ostensibly to no one.

"I stay there sometimes. Stay on base sometimes. Stay with the guys in the squadron sometimes… or – or – I used to, I mean… with Carrie... I don't really – I don't have – " He stumbles to a stop, and this surprises Veronica more than anything else, because even in the worst of times, Logan has almost always had a deft way with words, able to wield them in whatever way he sees fit at a given time. She is able to understand what he isn't saying: that he has not had a home, not a true home, since his parents' house burned… and frankly enough, maybe not even then. Veronica feels a rush of protectiveness and love drowning the fear, and a flurry of words tumbles out.

"Let's do it. Get a place, I mean. Together."

Logan spears her with a look that sees right through her, and she wonders if he is going to call shenanigans. But she remembers what he'd said: I choose us, Veronica. I'm actively making the choice. Every day. If he can do that, so can she. Damn it, they are trying. She wants to try, more than she's ever wanted anything, she thinks.

"I'm serious." Her voice is steadier. "I love you. I want to make a home with you."

His face is solemn as he nods at her. "Okay." His voice is barely audible, but has all the solemnity of a vow. They stare at each other for a long, fraught moment, before her father speaks again.

"That is a whole lot of decision making you two just did in my doorway. So why don't you come sit down, before we discuss dinner?"

He has been home for twelve days when he accompanies her to a doctor's appointment. His fingers are laced through hers, and they are still looking at each other constantly, as if neither one of them can believe that the other one is still there. She feels silly, giddy, like a crushing teenage girl, like a honeymooner, instead of like what she is: a woman who is seven months pregnant by an on-again-boyfriend from whom she is suddenly no longer estranged. My life is ridiculous, she can't help thinking.

"Nobody's had amnesia yet," he murmurs at her, as he holds open the door to the professional building, relinquishing her hand as she passes through it.

She blinks at him, groping helplessly for the logic that birthed this non sequitur.

"Your life is not, in fact, analogous to a soap opera. Nobody's – "

" – had amnesia yet." She finishes his sentence as she cottons on to his meaning. "Truthfully, trashy reality show might be a better fit. And how is it that you can still do that?"

"Do what? Read your mind? Do you yet doubt my formidable skills, grasshopper?"

She laughs, as he opens the door to the doctor's office, but whatever retort she'd been about to offer dies on her lips, as everyone's eyes instantly fall on them, and the various individual conversations grind to a deafening halt. She knows the nurses by now, and she recognizes a few of her fellow mothers-to-be who have happened upon a similar appointment schedule, but they are not looking at her.

They are looking at Logan.

She threads her fingers through his again, and turns toward the clipboard at the front window, signing her name in a shaky scrawl that tries too hard to be casual.

"Careful," Logan stage whispers in her ear. "Don't stand too close. You'll get notoriety on you."

"Logan…" Her look is mingled apology and compassion. She hates hearing the bitter undertone in his voice, the one that rarely leaves it, the one that signals – even when he is making a joke – how much things like this bother him. "I'm surprised it hasn't, I don't know, blown over. With all the press about the actual killer… not to mention that you've been on the other side of the world for six months." They speak in low tones, as they move to find a seat in the far corner of the room.

"The general public may have the attention spans of goldfish, but some genius over at TMZ dredged it up again when the carrier group came back in." Off of her questioning look, he adds, "The squadron keeps me… apprised… of things."

"I'm sorry." It is all she can think of to say, and it seems woefully inadequate. For all the demons that Logan has contended with and vanquished, this one – the unwanted fame, the guilt by association – is apparently the one that cannot be overcome.

"Unfortunately, this – " he waves a dismissive hand toward the rest of the waiting room, where there are several people trying to pretend that they are not avidly interested in his presence, " – is one of the less savory inducements in the benefits package. It actually had gotten better until the whole follow-up on Lilly. It's been ten years!" He says the last sentence in a What are you going to do next? emcee voice. "Honestly, who doesn't want to reminisce over the day that their father killed their girlfriend? Dating Carrie didn't exactly help either, but at least, the press focused more on her than they did on me."

"But it's over now. It's over. And you're here and I'm here." And Abigail's here. She is still holding his hand, and she rubs the other one over her belly. Logan watches, looking simultaneously grateful and overwhelmed.

"I'm not sure it'll ever be over. How many times can I be accused of murder before people figure that surely one of the times, I must have done it?"

"It is the Law of Averages," Veronica nods sagely, then pauses, as if arrested by a sudden thought, cutting her eyes at him sideways. "It occurs to me that maybe I should be concerned."

"Run away!" He apes Monty Python in a barely audible voice, and they both laugh as the somber mood is broken. "Should have worn my uniform," he posits, taking her hand and kissing the backs of her fingers. "Induced some patriotic pride in the masses, reminded the common rabble of my noble sacrifice."

"Until they found out you just like to fly big, shiny, expensive things."

"Many aspects of military life have their perks," he lectures, his voice arch. "Even something like wearing the uniform… especially if your initial reaction is any kind of indicator…" He pretends to give the room a salaciously contemplative onceover. "You pregnant types are crazy hormonal, right?"

"It'd be a risky move," she says, in a murmur meant for him alone. "We might be crazy hormonal, but that could work both for and against you. I'd most likely end up having to taser some other pregnant ladies, and I'm relatively certain society would frown on that."

"Might be worth it," he pretends to muse. "I certainly enjoyed the indirect results of your initial reaction."

"Ahem. The indirect results of my initial reaction are giving me heartburn as we speak. I'll be sure to remind you of this when she's waking us up at 3 AM."

He grins at this, even as he commiserates with a roll of his eyes, and the grin – one that actually lights his eyes and shows his teeth – does more to reassure her that this is right than anything else. Because she catches, in that lone smile, that he is excited about this, that he loves her, that he loves their child. She thinks it again, the phrase that is fast becoming their mantra: We can do this.

A little red-headed nurse named Caroline calls her name. Veronica likes her; she is always sympathetic about the various pregnancy symptoms and she is so small that Veronica can look her in the face. To Caroline's credit, her eyes flick over Logan once, as she leads the two of them back to the exam room, and says only,

"Oh, Daddy's back! I'll bet you're so glad to have him home!"

Logan and Caroline both help situate Veronica on the exam table, and they have only a short wait before the doctor has arrived and Abigail's heartbeat is thrumming through the room via the Doppler.

The awestruck look on Logan's face is immensely gratifying, but Veronica still blames the hormones for the tears that spring immediately into her eyes.

"See," she whispers to him. "Those people out there – those people that don't know us… they don't matter. It's this. This is what matters."

He kisses her temple as they listen to the song of their daughter's lifeblood, and whispers, "I love you."

He has been home for twenty-three days when they settle on a house. It is all Logan, full steam ahead, amount-of-money-be-damned, and she finds herself more or less swept along for the ride, allowing things that her pride would have never let her stoop to, had she not been thinking mostly of Abigail.

Okay, and maybe that light in Logan's eyes had helped a bit too.

The house is beachfront, as if Logan would have it any other way. It is sprawling and spacious without being ridiculously oversized, and the lot is landscaped in such a way to maximize privacy. It is a decent drive outside of Neptune, but is closer to her work than it is to his.

She loves it on sight, and is secretly somewhat ashamed of that fact, even though she initially does not realize she is gushing until Logan coughs wedding planner at her, without an ounce of subtlety. She loves opening the French doors from the office and hearing the breakers. She loves the beautiful kitchen and the sunny breakfast nook. She loves the large master suite and accompanying bathroom. She loves that there is a lovely corner room perfect for the nursery, plus a couple of extra bedrooms besides.

The house is entered on the main level from the front, but the yard slopes enough so that there is a sort of half-basement on a lower floor that opens onto the pool deck. The pool is small, but well appointed, and there is even a pool house opposite with a kitchenette and full bath. She smiles, already imagining her father staying there during holidays.

Logan takes her hand as they enter the lower level from the flagstone patio, and points out the man-cave, with ample space for any kind of gaming or theater set up one could want.

"Dick would say this was his room," he points out, teasing her.

"There is not enough Lysol in the lower forty-eight," she retorts.

But it is when he leads her further down the hall to an isolated door, leading to what appeared to be the only other room down there that she truly realizes that this house was as fated for them as they were for each other. The door opens to a fairly large room, adorned only with some built-in shelving and a counter running the length of three of the walls. He pulls something from his jacket pocket, and crosses the room to fiddle with the empty light socket on the ceiling.

He screws in a red bulb.

"Dark room," he mumbles, darting a glance at her that is almost shy.

She stands motionless in the middle of the empty room for a full thirty seconds, one hand over her mouth and one hand cradling Abigail. Tears are standing in her eyes, and she is afraid to blink.

"Veronica?" he ventures, after she has been silent long enough to make him nervous.

"How – ?" The word breaks off when her throat closes up. She has never been a purist – photography is something she's always been good at, but it was a means to an end, a way to document discoveries, to maintain leverage, to get what you wanted. And then, she'd taken an elective photography class at Stanford, and fallen in love with it. Ars gratia artis; color, shape, contrast, shadow. She'd become immersed in the world of red light and processing solution, damp prints clipped to clotheslines. It had satisfied something in her that she hadn't even known was missing. But that was during the radio silence years… something Logan should not yet have been aware of.

"I stopped calling you because I can take a hint, Veronica. It doesn't necessarily follow that I never asked anyone about you or wanted to know how you were doing. I might have wished that were true a few thousand times, but," he shrugs, still looking self-effacing, "what're you gonna do?"

She laughs, and the tears do overspill, but cannot quench the smile on her face. Possibilities of several things she can say flash through her mind, but she settles on,

"You are so getting laid tonight, mister."

He has been home for thirty-one days when they venture out for baby furniture. She insists on browsing through Neptune's available shops, and he has gone along with her request, with theatrical reluctance, after mentioning once or seven times that Neptune is not going to have the selection that San Diego or Los Angeles would.

They have been at it for three hours, and Veronica is beginning to fear that she will have to admit that Logan was right. Walking is beginning to become truly cumbersome, and initiates a nagging dull ache in her lower back. Also, she is hungry. And needs to go to the bathroom… again.

"This would be easier if it weren't for you," she grumbles.

"I protest!" Logan replies, in a tone of one in high dudgeon. "May I remind you that I was against this farce from the very beginning?"

"We have seen at least three different sets of furniture that would have been perfectly acceptable."

"See, even your word choice agrees with me. Acceptable. Something from IKEA would be acceptable. Except it's not," he cocked his head playfully at her, "because you have me here to maintain standards."

"I'm simultaneously shocked and disappointed, Lieutenant Echolls," she smirks back at him.

"Do tell."

"I would have thought that sleeping in a metal tub with hundreds of other men would have cured you of this."

"Of what? My agoraphobia?"

"Of your endemic elitist snobbery!"

"Because I don't want to buy anything at a place called 'Babies R Us'?"

"Abigail does not need a $4000 crib! And I'm not sure I understand your aversion to the convertible bed."

She takes his hand with a look of long-suffering amusement, and steers him away from the next boutique.

"It seems silly. If we convert the baby bed into a big bed, what will the next kid use? We'd have to buy another bed anyway. Where are we going?"

"I would have thought hand-me-downs were against the teachings laid out in the Gospel according to Logan Echolls anyway. And don't think I didn't notice what you did there. Next kid? Can we get this one out of me first please? And maybe make sure we aren't going to irrevocably screw her up? I'm starving. I think I want some of those fried jalapeño cheese things."

He is laughing when she pulls him around the corner toward a local fast food establishment.

"You're going to be sorry you had those when you're trying to sleep sitting upright at 2 o'clock in the morning."

"No, you're going to be sorry when I wake you up to go get me another industrial-sized canister of Tums," she teases back, failing to notice that he has frozen in place on the sidewalk until she is jolted to a stop by their still joined hands.

Madison Sinclair is standing in front of them, having just exited a café, holding a to-go coffee and an impossibly large purse. Logan wonders if it is the painful awkwardness or the outright hostility that will first send bystanders fleeing the area.

"Madison," he manages to say, trying to calculate if he could actually steer Veronica around their high school classmate, and avoid this altogether.

"Logan. Veronica." She makes the second name sound like an epithet. Her eyes rake roughly over Veronica's distended abdomen, and then roll up in her head in disgust. She mutters something that sounds like, "Figures," and adds, in a friendlier tone, "I would've thought that you would have known better than to get yourself trapped, Logan."

"It's nice to know that I can still surprise you after all these years," he says in the amiable tone that means he is feeling anything but.

"I suppose what's really surprising is that it hasn't happened before. Given your… tendencies…" Madison scoffs.

"Given my 'tendencies'… what does that make you?" Logan's voice is still soft. He can feel Veronica's nails digging into the skin on the back of his hand.

"Proof that you could do better."

"Oh, he does all right, believe you me," Veronica drawls with unsubtle innuendo, casually patting Abigail. Logan flings her a grateful glance; she is still with him on this.

"Surely you don't have any complaints, Madison? I thought we had fun in Aspen." There is a dangerous note in Logan's voice: a careful, stalking undertone, panther-like. Veronica realizes what he is waiting for a split second before Madison actually says it.

"Please," Madison scoffs. "You were so blasted out of your mind in Aspen that you couldn't even get it – " Too late, she clamps her lips shut against the rest of her sentence.

"I'm so sorry to hear that," Veronica says, pulling Logan with her, away from Madison. "Please be sure to fill out the customer satisfaction survey and leave it in our suggestion box." She gestures across the street with their joined hands. "Weren't we going there next, sweetie?" She indicates a jewelry store, and throws one last glance at Madison, a look that is just a bit more than only mocking triumph.

When they make it into the store, and out of Madison's line of sight, Logan brackets her face in both hands, and captures her lips. "I thought you were hungry," he says breathlessly, in between kisses.

"Oh, I still am," she assures him, willingly kissing him back. "You're going to have to go back for those jalapeño things." She presses her forehead to his. "Logan, I'm sorry. I'm sorry for holding her against you for so long. When it – when it was clearly meaningless for you, when – when I'm the one who drove you to it…"

"No, don't say that, don't ever say that," he is whispering now, desperate to make her understand. "I couldn't remember, not really. It was all so blurry, and I was so miserable. I couldn't get drunk enough. But I – I shouldn't have ever put myself in that situation to begin with."

"She's not worth it." Veronica says it with the tone of someone finally realizing something. "She was never worth it." Logan kisses her again, pulling her as flush against him as they can manage, and they stay locked that way until a genteel cough snaps them from their reverie.

"Could I help the two of you? We have a lovely selection of diamonds."

Logan grins openly at her. "I don't know, Veronica. Could he help us?" He is all innocence, but Veronica blanches.

"Logan, I – "

"I was just kidding," he hastens to assure her. "Mostly, anyway."

"It's not that I don't want to…ever. But – but not today." She inclines her head in the direction from which they'd come. "This isn't the story I want to tell our children." She can tell he understands by the look on his face. "We could look. For … for research purposes."

"I'll be sure to make a note."

He has been home for thirty-eight days, when she begins to have contractions. She wonders irritably if it is his military training that has him so calm and capable. She is amazed at how annoying it is, watching him retrieve her packed bag, carry it to the car, convey all necessary information to her father and Wallace, mostly because she is freaking the hell out.

"The nursery isn't finished! We don't have her bed! We're not even finished moving in!" Somehow these three facts have leapt into her mind as the most important.

"She is an infant, Veronica. We could have her sleep in a dresser drawer, and she is not going to care."

"What about the car seat? The hospital won't let us take her home without a car seat!"

"We can get a car seat. I'll call my people."

"Your people?" She raises one eyebrow, a modicum of humor creeping back into her voice. She checks her watch. It has been ten minutes since she's had a contraction.

"You know, the ones who facilitate my endemic snobbery."

"Endemic elitist snobbery," she corrects him absently, ducking her head and tensing up as she feels her belly tighten. "It's early. Do you think it's too early?"

"It's not dangerously early. She's going to be just fine."

She concedes his point, and lets him lead her to the car. "It'll be nice to see my feet again."

He has been home for thirty-nine days when they are sent home from the hospital, because the contractions have tapered off, and no progress is being made. She is being sent home to expand some more. It makes her grumpy and tired, and a strange mixture of relieved and disappointed. Their friends have gone home long since, and her father left just before they did, nursing an enormous cup of coffee.

"Well, look at that," Logan says to her sotto voce, as they exit the hospital. "They are letting us take her home, without a car seat."

"I hate you," she says promptly, but without rancor. "I'm never letting you touch me again."

"Ah, false promises! We both know that you can't help but succumb to my charms." She rolls her eyes at him, as he opens her door, and she heaves herself into the passenger seat. She watches him curiously in the rear view mirror, as he takes his time crossing behind the car, sending a text as he walks. He pockets his phone as he opens the driver's side door, and gets in without comment.

"What are we doing?"

"Not having a baby today," he quips before he can stop himself. She is glaring again, and his expression softens. "We're going home. We're going to pick out a car seat and a bed, and order them. And you're going to rest."

"I love you."

"How could you not?"

She sleeps most of the ride home, but rouses easily when he opens her door and helps her out of the car. He looks antsy now, and she cannot fathom why. He has been a bastion of calmness for her during the entirety of the last twenty-four hours.

"Pool?" he asks her.

"Please."

She changes into a suit, while he fixes them drinks, and when she comes out onto the patio, he is waiting to help her into the floating chaise.

"I'll bring the laptop out here too," he offers, gripping her hand tightly as she steps down. She knows she is unwieldy and her center of gravity is long gone, and she can't help but laugh, as he is forced to shuffle sideways to maintain his balance, soaking one shoe and the cuff of his pants leg on the top step into the pool. "Are you situated?" At her nod, he hands her the strawberry lemonade, and retreats, calling, "I'll be right back."

She sighs, pulling her sunglasses off of the top of her head to shade her eyes, and rubbing her other hand over the expanse of Abigail. She moves to sit her drink in the cupholder, but it goes in cock-eyed and very nearly spills. She swears under her breath, catching the drink, and moves it to see what she inadvertently sat it on.

There is a black velvet box sitting in the bottom of the cupholder.

She gropes blindly for the edge of the pool, only a foot away, and pulls the chair towards it. She sets the drink on the deck with a trembling hand, and looks toward the house. He has not gone inside, but is waiting near the doorway, watching for her reaction.

She flips the box open with her thumbs, and beholds a ring that is a work of art, the solitaire no bigger than a carat, and the setting antique.

"I really wanted to get you one so big that you'd have to walk around with your knuckles dragging the ground, but I figured this would go over better." He saunters back toward the pool, affecting nonchalance in a way that is almost convincing.

She can't find any words, and Abigail is doing handsprings underneath her ribs.

"So…do you want to?" Again, his voice is light, but she has been able to see through him for a long time now, and she knows how much he wants this, can feel it thrumming between them like something tangible. She looks up at him, and his eyes are riveted on her so intensely that it reminds her of the day they first kissed outside the Camelot.

"After all this time – after the things that we've – the way I've treated – are you sure?" She feels her throat closing up, clogging with tears, and she struggles to speak. "Do you really – do you really want me?" He kicks off his shoes, and flops down on the pool deck beside her, heedless of the wet.

"Veronica," he echoes her incredulous tone. "All I've ever wanted was you."

She looks at him with soft, damp eyes, and nods three times before she can make any words come out.

"Okay…" she says. It's not the most elegant response to a proprosal. "Okay then."

His laugh sounds like music. Abigail thumps a syncopated rhythm inside her.

My father is joyful.

He has been home for fifty-two days when the contractions start again, different from the brief tight ripples of Braxton-Hicks. She lets three of them go by, before coming to the conclusion that these are not the same, and that this might actually be it this time. She pads down the hall in her sock feet to find Logan.

He is in the nursery, attaching a bracket to the wall so a picture can be hung. The room is all but complete, decorated in shades of coral, taupe and pale green. There is a wooden script "A" hanging above the changing table, backed with burlap, topped with grosgrain ribbon, and painted to look distressed. He had fought her over the shabby chic look, but she had prevailed, even though he continued to maintain that he had veto power, should she go overboard with it.

Another contraction washes over her as she crosses the threshold, and it makes his name come out sounding like, "Lo-ho-gan."

She startles him, and he drops the electric screwdriver, swearing as it narrowly misses his foot.

"Yeah?" he says expectantly, bending over to retrieve the tool. Lately, he has responded to any address she has made to him expectantly, caught as they were in this seemingly interminable waiting. Like every day is Christmas Eve, she thinks. It does get tiring.

"I think this is it."

"All right," he says smoothly.

He takes the waiting picture, and quickly situates it on the bracket, before taking the screwdriver with him and exiting the nursery. She puts on her shoes, and he gets the bag, and in no time at all, they are in the car.

She laughs openly at him, when he gets into the car, and she realizes that he is still holding the screwdriver. She gleefully claps her hands.

"I was hoping you would humor me by acting like a sitcom father-to-be at least once."

"Sure, because that's what I was doing," he mutters, tossing the screwdriver into the back of the car, making sure to miss the brand new car seat that is already buckled in. He shifts the car into reverse, but stops when she pulls forward against the seatbelt, her face screwed up in a grimace.

"Ow," she manages after a beat.

"You ready?" he asks. She manages a tremulous smile.

"Let's do this, baby-daddy."

He has been home for fifty-three days when Abigail Joy Echolls makes her grand entrance into the world, red-faced and furious. There was mild concern initially at the size of the baby coupled with Veronica's small stature, but the delivery, while long, has been relatively uncomplicated.

She lets out a sigh of relief when she hears the squalling, and her eyes, which had been closed, race immediately to Logan. He is watching the activity at her feet with a sort of disbelieving wonderment.

"Beautiful girl!" A nurse calls out, and she feels her face collapse with uncontrollable tears.

"Let me see her; let me…" she gropes in the general direction of the baby. At the doctor's nod, Logan cuts the cord, with adorable gravitas, and the next thing she knows, her gooey baby is flopped onto her chest for her to see for the first time. She hardly has any hair, and what fuzz there is looks to be blond. She looks completely disgruntled at Veronica's intrusive touch, as she counts fingers and toes.

"I don't know…" Logan says dubiously. "I call a do-over on this one. I don't think she's quite up to our standard of cuteness." She sees two of the nurses exchange affronted glances, but she grins. The wobbly timbre in his voice gives him away.

"I did the best I could," she teases back, even though her voice is faint with fatigue. "Unfortunately, even all this hotness still had to contend with your genetics."

Then Abigail is gone, and there is much bustling as the nurses clean up both the baby and her mother. "She'll be right back," the nurse promises.

"God, Veronica." Logan is at her elbow, dabbing beneath her eyes at the tears she didn't even realize were there. "Isn't she beautiful? I – I mean, I never… I never thought… and – and you did great. I don't see how you – " He subsides into a baffled silence, settling on lifting her hand to his lips and kissing her fingertips.

"If you already sound this incoherent, I'd hate to see what a few years of kids' programming on Nickelodeon does to you," she mumbles, smirking at him.

"Eight pounds, four ounces," The nurse calls out from across the birthing suite. "Twenty inches long. Apgar is a nine." Only a couple of moments later, they bring her back, bundled up in hospital issue blanket and cap. She is squinting at them, as the nurse lays her in Veronica's arms, her eyes murky blue and unfocused. "You'll want to try to nurse her in just a bit."

"She's perfect. She's perfect," Logan murmurs, brushing back the strands of damp hair still clinging to Veronica's forehead, then following his fingers' path with his lips. "Thank you for her."

"You helped too."

"I didn't do any of the hard part," he protests. She half-grins, inches from falling asleep.

"There's a joke in there somewhere, I think. But I'm too tired to figure out what it is." She reaches up and draws two fingers along Logan's jaw line. "I love you."

"It's a good thing. Because I hate to tell you, but you're stuck with me now." His I love you too is shining in his smile and in his eyes.

"Will you go get my dad?"

"Of course." He leans over, kisses her, and gently extricates Abigail, cuddling her against his chest. "Rest for a minute. She's going to need to eat soon."

She watches him as he goes to the door and speaks to a nurse, as he holds their daughter like he's been doing it for years. There have been times where she never would have been able to imagine Logan Echolls with any baby at all, much less one that was also hers. The path that they've traveled to get to this point has been long and painful and perilous, and she still can't help but be grateful. He ensnared her once, for all time, it seems, and now his daughter stands poised to do the same.

You're stuck with me now, he had said. She is glad.

We can do this.

The End.

This was such a fun story to write. I've loved the response to my sticking a toe in the VM fandom. Can't wait to read your thoughts on the final chapter! Thanks so much!