Title: The Weight of All of Us
Characters/Pairing: Veronica/Logan
Rating: pg-13
Summary: It's not that they're too young to be parents. It's that they're far too old.
Warnings: Mentions of canonical shitty things done by their parents that messed Veronica and Logan up like whoa.
AN: Basically, I've always liked the idea of how Veronica and Logan would react to that kind of news. Because even if they were fully formed adults, with stable lives and a stable relationship (which they are in this fic), I don't think they'd react all that well. Not because they don't want them, but because they know that there are odds against them. It's been forever since I've written VM fic, so any and all feedback would be much appreciated.

When Veronica misses her period for the first time since high school, she buys four different brands of pregnancy tests and uses every single one.

They all tell her the same thing. Pink. Plus sign. A happy face (those are the worst. Those are the ones she snaps in half and hurls in the trash). Pregnant.

She doesn't cry.

She does vomit. better get used to that she thinks. She vomits again.

When Logan gets home from... wherever it was he'd gone- she can't remember and it's not important- he finds her there, in the bathroom. Sitting on the floor, back against the tub, pale and panicked.

"Veronica! What...?" And that's when he sees the empty boxes and the four different sets of instructions and the tests lined up on the sink and in the trash can.

"Veronica?" Softer now.

She can't move, can't speak, can't breathe.

But then he's there, next to her on the floor, pulling her into his arms.

She cries.

He holds her, cold and cramped on the bathroom floor, while her whole body is wracked with sobs.

He doesn't try to tell her that everything will be okay, and she loves him for that. She loves him, too, for the tears that are falling into her hair. She loves him now, maybe more than she has ever loved him, because he understands.

Because, like her, he doesn't see a future filled with a tiny shoes and pastel blankets and a face with her eyes and his mouth.

All either of them can see is the twisted, broken past. Full of alcoholism and abandonment and abuse. Depression, suicide, psychopathy, murder. Secrets and lies and loveless marriages and children forced to grow up too soon.

It's not that they're too young to be parents. It's that they're far too old.

She runs out of tears eventually. They sit side-by-side, bodies pressed against each other for what feels like days (but probably isn't).

"We won't be like them." He says, not to her but to a spot on the wall across from them. It's okay though; she can't look at him either.

"How?" She knows all the statistics and this kid is fucked. By genetic predisposition and by patterns and learned behaviors that are almost always too hard to break. Pain begets pain. She knew that long before they pinned a badge on her chest.

"We just won't."

"Logan... My mother's an alcoholic. Children of alcoholics are-"

"We'll throw it all out."

"Logan, that's not how it works."

"Why not? Don't have it, can't drink it." His voice is cracking. "And what about me, Veronica? My grandfather hit my dad, my dad hit me..."

"You won't hit our kid."

"But what if-?"

"You won't . But if you tried, you know I'd stop you. And make sure you never got the chance again."

He nods. "Good."

She twists the sapphire ring on her right hand. "We can't ever get married."

This is what finally makes them look at each other and not the wall. His eyes question, but his mouth is silent.

"We can't get stuck like that. If we need to leave, we need to leave . Each other, I mean. Not- not the kid. But if we stop working, if we can't be together anymore... We need to be able to get out. Staying with someone you shouldn't be with anymore is worse. For everyone."

He nods in agreement but says, "I'm not going to stop loving you."

"I know. I won't stop loving you either. That's never really been the problem though has it?"

They've been good, more than good, for a long time now. They don't hurt each other anymore. Not like they could, not like they used to.

But she knows, and so does he, that there's no such thing as a guarantee. No such thing as forever ( she stopped believing in forever when she fifteen, and she's certain he never believed in the first place).

He tips his head back to rest against the edge of the tub, and his hand closes over hers on the tile floor.

"Veronica Mars, nothing would make me happier than you being my not-wife. I would love to not-marry you."

She thinks if she wasn't still so terrified she'd probably smile. Instead, she takes a deep, shaky breath and lays her head on his shoulder.

"We won't be like them."

(They're not.)