A Joy You Can't Keep In

The distance from here to where you'd be

Is only finger-lengths that I see.

-"Set Fire to the Third Bar", Snow Patrol

He has been gone for thirty-two days before she realizes that something is wrong. She is in the grocery store buying random sundries: orange juice, coffee creamer, green apples… She passes a harried looking woman in the pasta aisle; her cart is still almost empty, but the toddler sitting in the basket is already beginning to fuss. She is not sure why, but the lone item in the woman's basket – the bright pink of a box of feminine hygiene products – catches her eye… catches her eye and jars something heretofore unnoticed and now thoroughly unwelcome to the forefront of her mind. She counts backward in her head, tries to remember the last time she purchased those. It was in New York.

Oh no…

He has been gone for thirty-three days when she is sitting on the closed lid of the toilet, defiantly keeping her back turned to the plastic stick sitting on top of the tank. She feels like she might throw up, and she has no idea if it is a legitimate symptom, induced by sheer dread, or her mind siccing things on her now that she knows. Because she knows. Knows in her gut, knows in the bottom of her soul, knows like she knew Logan was innocent. She bites her lips together, intertwines her fingers with each other until her knuckles whiten. Her stomach churns. Has it been two minutes? It feels like it's been two years. She pushes against the floor, spinning herself around on the toilet lid, clenching her jaw at the rush of nausea. She peers at the test.

Two lines.

He has been gone for forty-nine days before her father notices that she is acting squirrelly. He is waiting for her in the living room, when she arrives home from the office. The waning light from the afternoon sun tints everything orange. His walker is a stark silhouette next to his chair. She watches him shift his hips and suppress a grimace.

"Is everything okay, Veronica?" He asks, and she can hear the helplessness beneath his voice. He knows he can't really help her, can't protect her, can't bring Logan back for her. But he wants her to know that he is there.

She plops down on the sofa like a marionette with cut strings. Kicks off her shoes under the coffee table. She looks at him, a look that begs for forgiveness before he even knows the transgression.

"I'm pregnant."

He has been gone for sixty-one days when she goes to her first doctor's appointment. She thumbs through a four-year-old magazine, and feels like she is the elephant in the room, sitting there all alone, even though she's not yet showing. She feels like she has a neon sign blinking above her head: Knocked Up After Only Two Weeks! Father On Other Side Of World… Oh Yeah, And He Doesn't Even Know. She sighs, lays one hand on her stomach as it gurgles hungrily. Sure, now you're hungry, she thinks with irritation. That's what you get for rejecting the breakfast I ate earlier. Serves you right!

She has the sudden urge to drop the magazine and flee. What is she even doing anyway? She thinks she and Logan have an understanding. She thinks they are both through playing games. She thinks too damn much. When he left, they did not know there was a baby in the equation. She is afraid that that will change all the math.

The nurse calls her name, and she stands, drawing herself up to her full, if not considerable, height. She walks across the waiting room with a confidence she does not really feel.

Veronica likes knowing things. Knowledge is security, power, an edge. She does not know what will happen next, and it frightens her. All she does know is that she carries part of Logan inside of her, and maybe that is worth all the rest of it.

He has been gone for sixty-three days when she sits in front of her laptop, nervously creasing the ultrasound photo in her hands. The Skype call connects, and his face, somewhat grainy and out of sync, is smiling at her.

They exchange hellos and a few inane questions about work. Their careers being what they are, there are several I can't talk about thats. She laughs, and his eyes are soft when they look at her. She misses him. She tells him so.

"Good," he replies. There is enough longing in his face to make her blush. She has rolled up the photo like a cigarette, and her fingers are sweaty around it.

"Is everything all right?" The question is gentle. "Your emails have seemed…a little distracted lately."

She freezes. Hopes that he thinks it's the connection rather than her. She has thought about what to say. Hell, she's even practiced it in front of the mirror. And all at once, it somehow seems inadequate. Were there ever two people in the entire world less equipped to be decent parents? What is he going to say? Her mouth fills up with saliva that she cannot swallow.

"Veronica?" There is alarm now in his eyes. Great, she thinks. He flies $60 million dollar jets every day, and I've scared him.

She unrolls the picture, down low, in her lap. Her fingers are trembling.

"I have something to show you," she says.

"Okay," he replies warily, his voice measured. He drops his gaze, and then the picture really does freeze.

"Logan?"

Connection Timed Out.

He has been gone sixty-four days when she replies to his frantic email. "I am fine. You and I are fine. I need to talk to you. Not email."

He has been gone for seventy-three days before they can Skype again. When he appears on the screen, she can tell instantly how jumpy and tense he is… how jumpy and tense she has made him. The muscles in his arm ripple, and she knows that he is drumming his fingers on his leg.

"What did you want to talk about, Veronica?" He is trying to sound normal. He thinks she is running again. He is trying to brace himself for news that she is moving back to New York, that she has made a mistake. It makes her feel awful.

She cuts her eyes to the ultrasound photo lying on the table next to the computer. It is looking somewhat worse for the wear.

"Can I show you what I was going to show you when the last call cut out?" She asks, her voice sounding stiff and overly formal. He is looking at her like he thinks she is a Body Snatchers extra.

"Sure," he says inanely, watching her with trepidation in his eyes. She hates that she has done this to him, that they have done this to each other. She reaches for the picture, wordlessly holds it up, watching the little thumbnail screen to make sure that it is in frame. She is not sure that he'll be able to make anything out, that he'll even recognize the standard pattern of ultrasound pictures: mostly black surrounded by a white border.

Logan leans toward the screen. "What is it?" She smiles tremulously.

"Our baby."

He stills so suddenly that she worries the call has dropped again, but then his eyes are piercing into hers, even from thousands of miles away.

"Are we happy about this?" He finally asks, and she knows that he means "you" when he says "we".

"We're still figuring it out," she replies in like manner. But then she swallows, growing serious. She flicks a nervous glance at him. "What do you think?" Her lips twitch upward.

"I think… I think that anyone who is part me and part you will either end up ruling the world or rotting in prison. And it's a toss-up as to which." He laughs, a little shakily.

"Logan…" It is a plea for him to be serious, and he complies.

"Well, um… you did tell me about it. The questionable décor behind you indicates that you haven't taken the first flight back to New York." He is ticking things off on his fingers. "You even smiled… sort of. I feel like we're ahead of the game already."

"Only because you didn't see me hurling my guts up this morning."

He dips his elbow and snaps his fingers. "Aw, darn." He darts a cautious glance at her; he has the hopeful face of one who prays the happy ending will not be snatched from his grasp, but is afraid that it will. "I wish I was there with you right now." The words are heavy with sincerity, but followed by a theatrical wince. "Even if that means there would be vomit," he stage whispers.

"I think that's one of the most romantic things you've ever said to me."

"Sometimes, I even amaze myself."

He has been gone for ninety-four days when she finally gives up on regular clothes. She has been wearing yoga pants around the house and on errands, but has been cramming herself into her regular work clothes. When she finally puts on a pair of black maternity slacks, she lets out a sigh of relief and knows that she'll never go back.

She eyes herself sideways in the mirror, amazed at how truly pregnant she looks now. Even knowing that she could put on her regular jeans again, painful though it may be, and conceal it, she feels huge.

She takes a picture of herself in the glass, and emails it to Logan.

It is not long before he replies: "Who's the whale?" followed by a winky face.

She chortles to herself and writes: "It is a sign of the apocalypse when the Master of All Things Sardonic uses a winky face icon, right?"

"Hey, I've heard horrifying tales of how you pregnant types misinterpret things. I'm just trying to cover my bases."

"You mean your ass."

"That too."

The messages are flying back and forth, and she feels silly with this smile stamped across her face so that her cheeks ache. "Can you talk?"

"No." She can almost hear his regretful sigh. "'I'm due on deck in a few. I miss you. Both of you."

"Can you miss someone you've never even met?"

His reply is almost instant. "Yes."

She blames the hormones for both the tears that fill her eyes and the sensation that her heart has melted into a puddle of ridiculous sappy goo.

He has been gone for ninety-nine days when she finally fusses at him for calling their baby "it".

"I thought 'it' was a perfectly acceptable gender-neutral pronoun."

"It is. But the baby isn't gender-neutral. It's gender-unknown."

"Um… I hate to break it to you, but there is no 'gender-unknown' pronoun. And 'he or she' is awfully cumbersome, don't you think? Sounds lofty. Pretentious."

She can read the smile between the lines, and she can't help smiling back.

"I thought your picture was next to 'pretentious' in the dictionary."

"Your rapier wit. It wounds. I seem to recall that my picture is also next to 'lazy' in the dictionary. 'It' is easier to type."

"Well, quit it anyway. It makes me feel like I'm growing something non-human. Like a tapeworm."

He has been gone for one hundred days when she gets an email from him asking how the tapeworm is doing.

The nickname sticks. She supposes that she brought it on herself.

He has been gone for one hundred eleven days when she goes for her ultrasound. She brings her father with her. She doesn't figure he'll get too offended if she's wishing he was Logan. She has sworn on her life to text Wallace and Mac the second she knows whether the tapeworm is a boy or a girl.

Her heart is in her throat as the technician dollops the cold gel onto her belly, then swirls the wand onto it. The picture is surreal and alien, but she is amazed at the changes from her initial scan, when the baby appeared as not much more than a blip on the screen. She can make out arms, legs, a spinal column, and a dark, rapidly fluttering thing – their baby's heart. She squeezes her dad's hand tightly, wishing that Logan could be here, that Logan could see this, so badly that it hurts.

The technician is pausing every so often to click on things, measuring the length of the femur and the circumference of the skull, spewing perfunctory sentence fragments like "Four chambers in the heart," and "Kidneys here."

Finally, she is asked if she wants to know the gender, but her throat has closed up so tightly that all she can do is nod. The technician gives her a quizzical look and offers,

"There's nothing to worry about. Everything looks great. You're measuring right on schedule."

"The baby's father is in the Navy. Deployed," her dad explains, eliciting an understanding Ahh from the technician.

"Well, the next time you talk to him, you tell him he needs to get home to you and his baby girl."

She manages to smile before she starts crying in earnest, daubing at her tears with one hand, as she takes a tissue to wipe off the gel with the other. She is glad it is a girl, and no one would really understand exactly why. She knows – knows without knowing how she knows – that Logan is terrified of turning out like his father. A girl would ease his mind somewhat, as ridiculous as it sounds – she knows he would never hurt a child – because his father never raised a hand to Trina.

She imagines Logan getting all gushy, besotted and manipulated by a tiny scrap of a human completely dependent on them – which is another type of terror altogether – and it makes her feel warm and giddy all the way down to her toes.

She texts Wallace and Mac while the technician prints out a string of pictures and gives her the DVD. The warm feeling stays with her, buoys her, sustains her.

She cannot wait to tell him.

He has been gone for one hundred thirty-four days when she brings up baby names. She includes several links to naming websites.

"I would have thought you'd have had names picked out for years," he teases.

"Do you know me at all? Do I seem like the kind of girl who's had baby names picked out since she was ten?"

"I don't know. You sure produced that wedding planner right quick, that day we staked out the Grand. Wouldn't have pegged you as that kind of girl either."

She wonders if he can sense her blushing over the internet. "That wasn't mine. It was just a prop I threw together."

"Veronica, it was four inches thick. There were ribbons!"

"I hate you."

"Winky face?"

"How about the face rolling its eyes? Now… names? Any preferences?"

"Well, you know I'm down with anything… especially if it has a double 'e' at the end, or an excessive number of 'y's."

"So, you want to make sure she's on the cheerleading squad then?"

"What about something literary? Something intelligent, classical…Shakespearean?"

"Oh look! It's my dictionary's entry for 'pretentious' again! Now it's talking about names like Hermione!"

"Nah, not Hermione. Twenty years ago, it would have sounded intelligent and classical. Now it just sounds like you're a crazed Harry Potter fan."

"Juliet?"

"She's already our spawn, Veronica. She'll have enough of a genetic predisposition to angst without naming her after an icon of romantic tragedy."

"I concede your point, Lieutenant. I just didn't know if there were names that were off-limits. We don't exactly have massive numbers of stellar ancestors to honor with the name of our firstborn."

"Let's not use any family names that belong to lushes or corpses."

"Can you get back to me with a top ten list?"

"I'll take 'Things I Can Do With My Abundance of Free Time' for $200, Alex."

He has been gone for one hundred thirty-eight days when she gets an email from him about names. There is not a top ten list. There is one name.

"Abigail. Look it up."

She does, and the laptop screen wavers and swirls through her sudden flood of tears. "Abigail," the website says. "Hebrew origin. Meaning: 'My father is joyful'".

She sends him a five word reply. "It's perfect. I love you." She clicks send before she can think herself out of it, and waits on proverbial tenterhooks for his reply, which seems to take overlong coming.

"Sorry. Had to mark this day on my calendar. I love you too."

She smiles for the rest of the day.

He has been gone for one hundred fifty-two days when she gets carjacked. She has been delegating a fair bit of the field work to Weevil and Mac since her father has been out of commission. Logan hasn't asked her to stay out of trouble, but she can see the worry hovering behind his eyes when they talk, and she is trying to be a grown-up, trying to be cognizant of when it is and isn't okay to put oneself in danger, trying to remember that she is no longer responsible for only herself.

She is merely doing surveillance, having eschewed Logan's snazzy car for Wallace's more nondescript model. She honestly thinks that it is not a big deal. She sits across the street and two doors down from the house she is watching. The mark arrives, and she is busy behind the massive lens of the camera, tracking every step of his progress. A woman answers the door, and there is some PG-13 rated action right in the doorway. Then – Veronica jolts backward in surprise – there is an exchange: a paper bag for a briefcase. Both the woman and the mark peer inside each bag to satisfy themselves about the contents. She quickly takes more pictures.

Sirens wail suddenly. The Doppler effect makes them hard to localize, and Veronica drops the heavy camera into her lap, trying to figure out where they're coming from. She misses the moment the mark makes her – how, she does not know – but when she looks up, he is nearly to the car, and there is no time to crank the engine and peel out.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" he snarls, with a nauseating puff of vodka-soaked air.

"My husband and I are thinking of buying this house," she burbles brightly, indicating the For Sale sign across the way. "I wanted to show him pictures." She is groping behind her for her taser, but her bag is in the passenger side floorboard.

The sirens are louder. She is not sure whether or not he believes her, but he has wrenched her door open and yanked her out, throwing her unceremoniously to the pavement. A heartbeat later, her camera shatters next to her, then her bag, spilling its contents. She is still trying to push herself upright on abraded palms, when he tears out of the parking place, narrowly missing clipping her with the rear bumper.

Her rear end is throbbing, and so is her ankle. Abigail kicks her insides reassuringly, and she absently places a hand there. She looks at the broken mess of her camera, and swears.

He has been gone for one hundred sixty-five days when he Skypes her and he knows. She can tell by the flare of worry in his eyes that wars with anger, even as his smile remains bland.

"So…" he says, almost in his old singsong way. "What's new with you? Been thrown out of any vehicles lately?"

She wonders briefly who told, but realizes it could have been anybody: Wallace, Mac, Dick, her father… Thrice-damned Good Samaritans, the lot of 'em. Well, she amends, maybe not Dick.

"Logan, I'm fine."

"I thought I've done well, actually, Veronica. I haven't nagged, haven't hovered – "

"I think even the Almighty Logan Echolls might have difficulty hovering from the other side of the planet," she breaks in, trying, not terribly successfully, to lighten the moment.

"What in God's name were you doing?"

"You mean, you didn't get that juicy tidbit from your network of informants?"

"Funnily enough, no. I'm not entirely sure of the level of loyalty this network has… to me anyway."

"It was surveillance. Mac and Weevil have been doing most of the heavy lifting. Ask them. This was a standard cheating husband." He remains silent, clearly waiting for her to continue. "… where the two people involved in the affair just happened to conclude a coke deal at the same time," she finishes sullenly. "The police were tipped off… and the mark stole my car – er, Wallace's car."

"After he threw you out of it."

She tries to shift in her chair without grimacing. She doesn't dare look toward her propped up ankle, still ensconced in an Ace bandage.

"And my camera."

"Your camera isn't carrying our child." She must look suitably stricken, because Logan's ire sort of melts into a worried anguish.

"I'm sorry, Logan." She means it.

"Fifteen days, Veronica. I'll be home in fifteen days, and then I'll have leave. Can you give me fifteen days?"

"You drive a hard bargain, mister." She lapses into a thick Southern accent.

"I refuse to be distracted by any of your other personalities," he tells her stonily, but one corner of his mouth goes up.

"No more field work," she promises. "For fifteen days."

"Veronica!"

"No more field work, unless it's completely vanilla stuff, and someone goes with me."

"And drives."

"I can still drive!"

"Those are my terms."

"You are deliberately taking advantage of the fact that I am incubating your spawn."

"Yes, I am." He looks unrepentant as he speaks, but then spears her with a glance that makes her melt. "I love you. And, that being the case, if you get thrown out of any more vehicles by bad guys, I'm gonna have to hunt their asses down, possibly do jail time, and – I know from personal experience – the Navy does not love that."

"I'll be good, Logan. I promise." He cocks an eyebrow at her.

"Are these the hormones talking now? Making you all uncharacteristically reasonable and such like? Because I think that makes them my new friends."

She sticks her tongue out at him. The call freezes up while he is still laughing.

He has been gone for one hundred seventy-one days when she feels the stirrings of blind panic welling up within her. Logan is going to be home soon. They haven't talked about it in so many words, but she is fairly certain that they are going to give this relationship thing a go. Historically, they have been poster children for 'dysfunctional', and now there will be a baby just waiting to be caught in their crossfire.

She knows that Abigail is shoving all her organs out of their original positions, and she tells herself that that is why it is difficult to breathe. It is definitely not because she has decided to wait almost six months to freak out on what is practically the eve of her boyfriend's – oh God, they haven't labeled anything – what are they? – return home.

They have done everything out of order, and that was after they had to deal with things, both separately and jointly, that no teenager should have to attempt to handle. After more than one attempt at their tumultuous disaster of a relationship, she had fled. They had finished college separately, had not spoken again. Nine years of radio silence, he'd said. She remembers noticing when he finally stopped calling her cell phone. Even now, she isn't sure what made her pick up this last, most recent call, but the part of her that still believes in fairy tale endings is glad she did, even under the swamping wave of fear.

Epic. They were epic. Spanning years, continents. Lives ruined. Blood shed. She remembers those words: those poetic, romantic, desperate words that he had been too drunk to remember saying.

She doesn't want Abigail to be a ruined life to add to their tally.

He has been gone for one hundred seventy-nine days when they Skype again. It will be their last Skype call before he returns home. That thought disturbs a swarm of butterflies in her stomach

His face changes expression as soon as he sees her.

"You've been thinking too much."

She doesn't try to deny it. "J'accuse," she whispers softly, with a mirthless laugh.

"Have you passed summary judgment on us yet?"

"Logan, I'm scared!" She blurts, surprising them both. "What if we mess this up? If this was gonna work, wouldn't it have worked already? Do we even know each other anymore? I'm afraid of screwing up Abigail!" It's like her mouth has taken over, and is no longer asking permission from her brain.

"I think we've grown up, Veronica. And I think that makes up for a hell of a lot. Maybe we needed the time apart, the other experiences, to be able to appreciate what we had together. There's never been anyone for me but you… not really."

"But – But Carrie – "

"Think about every relationship you've had since the day I beat up that Russian asshole in the food court. Really think about them, and what they meant. Or didn't mean."

She does. And she knows he is right. Epic. Star-crossed. They've ruined each other for anyone else.

"I've made my decision. I'm in this for the lon – " he stumbles gracelessly to a stop, and she knows he'd been about to say long haul, but choked on the words, the title of one of his father's movies. "I choose us, Veronica. I'm actively making the choice. Every day. Please believe me."

Her eyes are awash in tears, as she looks at him. She has that funny light-headed, stomach flippy feeling, as if she is looking over a precipice. She shoves away thoughts of bus wreckage floating at the bottom.

"Okay."

Logan looks as if she has vaguely disappointed him, as if he had a few more articulately worded pleas that he is not going to need to use. "Okay? Aren't I still supposed to chase you… shouting your name? And in the rain too, I think."

She can't help a snort. "I figured that would be hard to finagle on an aircraft carrier. I'm trying to help you out here." He grins, but does not lose the serious thread of their conversation.

"Are you sure? I want this, you, us, more than I've ever wanted anything. But I want you to want this too."

"I do," she murmurs, and the exact words she has spoken are not lost on either of them.

"I wanna hear that again someday. Under radically different circumstances, you understand."

"Maybe…" she takes a deep breath. We can do this. "Maybe that could be arranged."

He has been gone for one hundred eighty-one days when she is standing on a dock in San Diego, watching this impossible floating behemoth make its way toward them. She is surrounded by throngs of other exultant people: siblings, parents, wives, strollers with infants who have never met their fathers. Her pregnancy has not gone unremarked upon, but she finds that she cannot even remember what exactly she said in response. She is strung as taut as a wire, Abigail thumping inside of her. She feels like every heartbeat, every surge of her blood, is focused solely on Logan.

She is trying to remember the details of his uniform; the sea of white is blending together. She honestly thinks she might not ever find him in this morass of humanity.

And then he is there. And she is stumbling the last few feet, all but throwing herself in his arms.

"Hi," is all she gets out before her throat closes up. Her arms twine around his neck, and tears wet the front of his uniform.

He kisses her so hard that her toes curl, and she distantly thinks that people may be taking their picture. Abigail is an unwieldy presence between them, and Veronica feels her kick vigorously.

Logan feels it too.

"Kid's already in the way," he mock-grumbles, backing away slightly to take in the sight of her, laying gentle hands against her abdomen. She sees the sheen of tears in his eyes, when Abigail moves beneath his palms.

"You'd best get used to it," she chides.

"I could definitely get used to it," he whispers hoarsely, before sweeping her up to kiss her again.

AN: I am a Veronica Mars newbie, having mainlined the entire series + the movie in less than two weeks. I would love to hear what you think.

This is a two-shot, so there will be one more chapter to come.