TITLE: Perception (17/?)
AUTHOR: vanessagalore
CHARACTERS: Veronica, Logan, Keith
WORD COUNT: 6,170
RATING: PG13/R for this chapter
SUMMARY: Sometimes it's best to just get the hell out of Dodge. Set right after 'The Bitch Is Back'.
SPOILERS: Spoilers for the whole series, especially season 3.
WARNINGS: Cursing.
DISCLAIMER: I don't own any rights to Veronica Mars. This story is written as a tribute only. Beta'd by boobsnotbombs and zaftig_darling. Both my betas have really contributed greatly to this story, looking at chapters multiple times. All remaining errors are my responsibility.

Last time on 'Precipitation':

Veronica leads her pursuer into Navy Pier, a tourist attraction on Lake Michigan. She identifies him (thirties, dark hair and a blue windbreaker) and disguises herself as a tourist. Just as she is about to exit Navy Pier, Brown Suit Guy shows up in a taxi. The two men pursue her into a park; she hides behind a pillar in a gazebo as they track her. She fires three shots wildly and takes off running, but one of the bullets hits the man in the blue windbreaker, and he does not survive.

Veronica manages to get away and, after a few more subterfuges and false trails around Chicago, she spends the night in Chinatown to regroup. In the morning, she creates a new disguise (reddish-brown hair dye, more mature haircut and clothes, glasses and high heels). She takes a cab to South Bend, Indiana and from there, Amtrak to Philadelphia and then south to Charlotte, disembarking at Raleigh and taking a taxi to meet her father in Chapel Hill.

On the final leg of her journey, she's tormented by thoughts of the shooting in Chicago.

They watch me eat: spaghetti with generic sauce from a jar and a lettuce and tomato salad. It tastes like cardboard, but I choke it down, uncomfortably aware of their concerned expressions. I must look like hell. Dad's said, "No questions until she's had a bite." I thought I'd be relaxed when I finally got here, but I'm as tense as a virgin on prom night.

After dinner, there's an awkward moment when the two men both try to sit next to me, but Dad steps aside, taking a well-worn recliner beside the sofa. Ever since we reunited, Dad seems to need to stay physically close to me. He touches me frequently, patting my knee and kissing the top of my head when he goes to get me a glass of water.

Logan's arm wraps tightly around my shoulders as we sit on the couch. It's just as well that Logan's beside me, because I hate looking at him now, the ugly tattoos faded but still there, still horrifying.

And there's that other thing, the thing I don't want Logan to see in me. So I avoid his probing eyes and look around our new digs.

Dad's found a small basement apartment for us, with one miniscule bedroom, an eat-in kitchen, and a fold-out couch in the modest living room. Much smaller than the Sunset Cliffs apartment, it's extremely close quarters for three people. But the rent is almost nonexistent, since Dad took the job of on-site maintenance man for the apartment complex.

It's furnished with clean but mismatched furniture, industrial-grade wall-to-wall carpeting, a small television and one wall phone. The kitchen is bare bones but sufficient. The few windows are set high on the wall, with tacky curtains drawn against nighttime's inquisitive eyes. Stacked next to the front door are the boxes that Dad shipped from Dallas via Greyhound Package Express, containing all the office machines and disguises we need to keep us safe, along with the clothes we hadn't taken with us when we split up.

When he met me, Dad had been wearing a wig—short, dark brown hair in an unfashionable cut—and black-rimmed glasses. He'd said the Aunt Mildred wasn't completely retired, but he'd save her for trips to the Department of Motor Vehicles or the county registrar, when a little old lady would get extra courteous service and not raise any alarms. Now, his wig and glasses discarded for the night, his shorn scalp still freaks me out a little.

I don't like the way the men in my life look. It's a constant reminder of our shitty situation. Every once in a while, I catch Dad running a hand over his bald head, and I decide it must be disconcerting to him too. Both he and Logan say that they think my disguise is great, and that I look good, but not like Veronica Mars. I haven't decided if I believe them.

They listen as I tell them the whole thing. Charlene, the college kids, St. Louis and Lynard, Union Station and Navy Pier. Brown Suit Guy and the guy in the blue windbreaker, now identified as Anatoly Ponomarev and lying on a slab in the Chicago morgue, I presume.

I don't say, I murdered him or I shot him in cold blood.

I say, "I fired three times so I could get the hell out of there...and...and...um, I must have winged him. Kind of a lucky shot. He, um, didn't make it, I guess."

But they get it right away. A shadow passes across Dad's face. He knows what I mean. And Logan, who once upon a time convinced me that I wasn't a killer—I feel his body tighten. Is it my imagination, or does he pull away from me just the smallest amount?

"You said this guy's name was Ponomarev? So it's pretty likely he was with the Russian mob," Dad finally says.

I nod. "Yeah, I think so. They were so goddamned ruthless."

"I was so worried when I got your text, honey. I'm proud of you."

Uh-huh. Proud. Sure.

"It sounds awful," Logan comments.

"What was it like for you guys?" I ask.

Dad shrugs. "The worst part was trying to keep my makeup done without you to help, and shaving my beard every couple hours. And I almost screwed up and went up in the men's room. Twice. I tried not to have any conversations, because you know I'm not that good at a female voice."

"Ha-hah, that's not true."

He chuckles. In an overtly false woman's voice, he says, "Don't you smart mouth me, you whippersnapper."

"Dad, you have no idea how much I wished you were there to help me." He pats my knee again. I look at Logan. "How was it for you?"

"Boring. I put on my usual brooding expression, and everyone left me alone, just like your dad said they would. And Greyhound terminals are the pits. I got here yesterday morning."

I'm suddenly jealous. For days now, I've been picturing him bloodied in a bus station men's room or running for his life from a gunman, and instead he'd been bored. Meanwhile, I'd been fighting to stay alive, running on sheer adrenaline for four days without a break.

"That's— that's good. I was really worried," I finally manage. I have a flash of resentment: once again, the poor little rich boy skates by without any hassles. And then, of course, guilt, because after all I'm the reason we're on the lam, and I'm supposed to be trying to be more forgiving toward him.

Dad asks, "You want some dessert? We've got ice cream. We have something to celebrate after all."

"Um. I guess. Well, not really."

He frowns. "You sure you're okay?"

"Yeah. Just really tired." I stand up and stretch, looking around the apartment. "What's the plan for sleeping?" I'm sick of being coy about Logan and me. It seems like such bullshit now.

"I'm sorry the apartment's so small. It kind of fell in my lap, and with the handyman position and the low rent—"

I'm betting 'handyman' is a convenient euphemism, and Dad's job is really going to be more like 'janitor'. It's depressing and pathetic to go from sheriff to this. "Absolutely. It was the right call, Dad."

"Maybe later on we can find something bigger," he says. "I thought maybe you could take the bedroom, and Logan and I will sleep on the sofabed. You need your privacy."

The couch looks to be twenty years old, threadbare and lumpy. The fold-out bed is probably a back-killer, one of those torture devices with a metal bar right in the lumbar region. "I think I should take the couch—I bet the mattress on this thing is a joke, and I'm the lightest. You guys can have the bedroom. Maybe we could find a futon at a garage sale or something? Maybe even two small ones so we could each have our own bed. We can afford that, right?"

Dad nods. "Yeah. Good idea."

"I'm thinking of hitting the sack early, if you don't mind. I want to get a jump on finding a job tomorrow. I— Dad, I'm so sorry I had to spend so much money to get here, I really didn't mean to—"

"Veronica! It's fine."

"No, I screwed up. I messed up bad. If I'd been safe like you taught me, I'd have—"

He jumps up and folds me into his arms, like he always used to when I'd skinned my knee or been teased at school. "Shh. Shh."

This is turning into a full-out blubber. I'm such a goddamn liability. "The taxi driver can identify me. From the sh-shooting." I hate the way my voice breaks as I talk. "He saw that I was upset, and he heard the gunshots—he just thought they were fireworks, but the police are going to question him and then it's—"

"It's going to be all right, honey. From what you said, the guy sounds like a low-level mobster. The police won't spend much time investigating that—they'll assume it's a hit from a rival gang."

I shout, "You don't know that!"

Dad pulls me onto his lap and cuddles me as I disintegrate into sobs. "You've been through a terrible experience, honey, and you're exhausted. It's okay, it's okay. You're safe now." To Logan, he says, "Get her some warm milk."

Between them, they get me calmed down and tucked into the sofabed for the night. I hear quiet voices murmuring from the bedroom—discussing my fragile state of mind, I presume. Then the light switch is clicked off, and the narrow band of light escaping under the bedroom door disappears. Thin walls, I think. How the hell are we going to live like this? Making subsistence wages and getting on each others' nerves 24/7?

I can't sleep. After being on a train for thirty-six of the last forty-eight hours, I can't shake the irrational feeling that the bed is moving. My right hand aches from clenching the Glock for so long, and I notice my forefinger twitching against my thumb, an odd little tic that I've never had before. My fingers don't listen when I order them to stop it.

Every unfamiliar noise in the apartment is magnified: the second hand on the clock clicking, the floor creaking above us, water rumbling through pipes in the walls, a bus on the street outside. All of a sudden, I think I should be able to hear Dad and Logan breathing, and when I strain my ears, there's nothing. So I tiptoe to the door of the bedroom and peek in. Of course they're fine. Of course you can't hear people breathing from the next room. What the hell, Veronica?

Back in bed, I review every step of my journey. It's stupid and compulsive, but I come up with at least four scenarios at Navy Pier that would have prevented the shooting. Probably. Even if I'd just aimed, instead of firing blindly, that would have...

You'd be dead right now if you'd taken time to aim, I lecture myself. It was just bad luck that one of the bullets hit him.

I wonder if the guy I'd killed had had a family. Kids, a wife, parents who'd loved him, friends who were going to miss him. Was somebody grieving and planning a funeral, worried about how they were going to pay the mortgage now?

It's weird to think of a heart beating, pumping blood around your body and then...just...stopping. A final weak contraction, a last electrical impulse in your brain, and then you don't ever inhale again. That white light that everyone talks about beckoning you to hurry up.

Putting my fingers on the inside of my wrist, I try to feel my own heart beating. Still going. I'm too fucking aware of my breaths, in, out, my body aching a little with bruises I don't remember getting.

I decide to try to eat something. Even if I don't feel hungry, maybe my body is telling me that I need food and that's why I can't sleep. Tossing off the covers, I walk over to the kitchen area and root around in the refrigerator. There's not much food, and especially not much that appeals. Finally, I make a peanut butter sandwich—sliced on the diagonal, of course—and sit down at the kitchen table. It's wobbly, and I use a folded-up page from a newspaper to prop up the shortest leg. Because, god knows, a rickety table is the most important thing in my life right now.

The table secured to my satisfaction, I return my attention to the sandwich again. And I see what the newspaper had been covering: this week's 'People' magazine, with Logan Echolls the cover story. He's finally managed to drive Lindsay Lohan and Paris Hilton onto page two. My sandwich forgotten, I flip through the story, which thankfully highlights his lifesaving measures in Arkansas more than his food court shenanigans and probation violations.

The same two photos of Dad and myself that made the Arkansas newspaper are printed in a sidebar, with a throwaway line about 'Logan's companions'. Apparently Dad and I don't rate as much ink as does the bad-boy heir to the Echolls fortune. There are three more photos of Logan accompanying the article, and all the old scurrilous Tinseltown Diaries stories are repeated.

"How's the sandwich?" Logan asks from behind me.

I inhale with a jerk at his voice. "Jesus, you scared me."

"Sorry."

"When were you going to tell me about this?" I say, pointing to the magazine.

"Tomorrow. After you got a little rest. We're worried about you." Sitting down at the table, he picks up my sandwich and takes a bite. "Mm, delish."

"It's not delicious, it sucks."

"Stop stealing my lines. I'm the spoiled little rich kid here. Besides, I'm enjoying tasting all of your fine bourgeois cuisine. Mac and cheese from the box is to die for. And your dad promised me a pot roast for Sunday dinner."

"What are we going to do?"

He offers me the sandwich again; when I decline, he takes another bite before replacing it on the plate.

"Logan. What's the plan here?"

"Your dad says I need to stay in the apartment for the near future. No going out at all, even in the skinhead getup. House arrest, without the fancy ankle bracelet. You know, they picked up the story on Entertainment Tonight and TMZ, too."

"How can you be so calm?"

"I've been expecting it. It's my baseline, remember? I grew up with paparazzi lurking at the front gate my whole life. Your dad's right. I've just got to stay hidden until a bigger news story pushes ours off the front page. ...Listen, it's not going to be that bad. I'll be like the butler, and we'll be a wacky sitcom family."

The corners of my mouth twitch up, ever so slightly. I'm a little hungrier all of a sudden, and I grab the sandwich again, finishing it while Logan watches.

"Veronica, if I could have gone through some of that for you, I would have. I'm sorry it was so awful for you."

"I killed a man." It's the first time I've said it aloud.

"I know. But it was you or him."

"That doesn't help."

With his thumb, he caresses the flesh under my eye. "You're exhausted. You've never had dark circles like this."

I avoid his gaze and put my plate in the sink. "I'm okay."

"No, you're not." He shuts off the light and leads me back to the couch.

"Logan—can you lay down with me?" My voice is small and wretched, embarrassingly whiny.

"Just try and stop me." He slides under the covers with me and puts his arms around me. "You're safe now, okay? Try to get some sleep."

"I don't think I've slept more than ten minutes without a nightmare since we left Neptune."

"It's going to get easier, you know."

His arms around me finally stop the illusion of the bed moving—something about tethering me to the world. His hand traces an up-and-down pattern on my back, soothing me, gentling me. Being in his arms is the first thing that's felt familiar since I got here. I murmur, "I'm so tired of thinking."

"You've always been like that, always thinking too much. It's one of the things I love about you, even when you make me nuts."

"You're not disappointed in me?"

"What?" His hand stops caressing me.

"Because of what happened in Chicago. You know, what you said on the roof. That I wasn't, you know, a killer. I should've figured another way out of there—"

"You can't be serious—you're torturing yourself over killing a Russian mobster who wanted to gun you down? Veronica! Jesus. I'm fucking proud of you for getting out of there alive!"

My whole body trembles, and I say it. "I was so scared they were going to follow me here. Or they'd capture me and try to torture me into saying where you were. I still feel like I can't breathe—that they're going to crash through the door and start shooting. Oh god!"

"Shh, it's going to be okay. You're here, you're safe. Try not to think about it." His grip tightens on me, almost painfully.

"You don't understand. It was like I couldn't shake them no matter what I did—I did everything right and they still found me. How the hell are we ever going to be safe? And they're pissed now, because I got away."

"Veronica, it's all right, we're going to be fine—"

"I just keep thinking what I should have done differently, all the foolish things I've done."

"No. No, Veronica. You can't do that. We've got to move ahead and look forward."

"I don't know if I can. God, Logan, I've destroyed everything. What kind of a life is this? Hiding out, half underground, doing shitty jobs and looking over our shoulders every day for the rest of our lives."

He doesn't know what to say to that, because it's true.

I say, "I've never felt like this before. Even when things were shit, I always had something to focus on. Find Lilly's murderer. Find out who raped me. Catch the Hearst rapist. Solve the dean's murder. There's nothing to solve here, there's just looking back and regretting the stupid things I did."

"Stupid things we did."

"Mostly me. I should have listened to you when you told me I was taking too many chances. Logan, I tried to blackmail a judge! I sent Wallace into the Castle, and they shocked him—my best friend, the person I should have been protecting. I even shot a bunch of little kids with a paintball gun, for no reason other than they were smarting off to me. Who does that?"

"Paintball?"

"It was when we were broken up. I think...I think I just wanted to hurt somebody, because I hated the way I felt. And then when the sex video came out, I was ashamed. I was humiliated. It felt..." I shouldn't say it. No good will come of it. "Goddammit, it felt like when I was raped at Shelly's party and all you fuckers were calling me a slut. Every bathroom stall at Neptune High had my name on it. 'For a good time, call Ronnie.'" My voice is so bitter I don't recognize it.

Logan recoils like I've actually hit him. "Veronica. I'm so sorry about—"

"Don't say it. I forgave you a long time ago."

"You sure about that?"

A little niggling doubt that I suppress. Cannot, will not let myself think about it. I need him. I love him. I need him. It's much more productive to blame Logan's father, for killing Lilly and destroying my family. And Jake Kane, for screwing my mother and lying to my dad. Both of them, along with Cassidy, victim-turned-psychopath, playing their parts in making high school completely fucking miserable. No, there's enough blame to go around. I can give Logan a pass. "I'm sure."

Besides, what's a little high school taunting compared to manslaughter? I pulled a gun, and a man lost his life. Don't tell me there wasn't a choice. I could have shot into the air; I knew there was a chance someone would get hurt.

Because I'd wanted to hurt that guy for chasing me. Just like I'd wanted those kids to feel the sting of a paintball, like I'd wanted Madison to cry over her cubed car (narrowly averted in a fleeting moment of humanity), like I'd wanted Logan to hurt when I broke it off and then kissed Piz in front of him—yeah, I'd wanted him to catch us. I reveled in all their misery. Everyone needed to feel the way I felt.

I've never really put it together like this before, just how out of control I've felt for the last...well, to be honest, since Beaver swan-dived off the roof and half of me wanted to jump with him. I take a shuddering breath. "Logan, it's like I wanted to destroy my life this past year, and I took you guys with me. Damn it all to hell!"

"Shh. Shh. Don't wake up your dad. I don't think he's ready to rubber-stamp us being in bed together. You didn't do this. It just is, and now we've got to make the best of it." He plays with my hair in that delaying way he has, when he's not sure what to say. "Veronica...don't you think what happened in Chicago was a little...I don't know...extreme?"

Of all the things he could say, this particular insight seems radical. It's like psychic whiplash, his words throwing me out of my compulsive thoughts. "What are you talking about?"

"They're being awfully intense about this. I didn't kill Gory. I could see him stalking me in Neptune and breaking my knee cap, maybe even putting a hit on me once I'd been arrested...but a nationwide manhunt for the three of us? Trying to kill you in Chicago? Come on. We're not worth that."

From behind us, Dad says, "He's right." He walks over and sits on the edge of the bed. "Are you okay, honey?"

Logan says, "Sorry we woke you." He struggles to sit up and put a few inches between our bodies.

Flipping off the covers, I sit on the edge of the bed. "Don't be mad at him. I couldn't sleep. I keep going over everything that happened."

"I know. That's what happens." There's something in Dad's voice. I know he's had to use his weapon on the job more than once, and I remember the way he'd berated himself after Kendall died in the desert. He hadn't pulled the trigger, but I knew he'd felt responsible for delivering her to Cormac—and for letting Vinnie trick him into leading Liam straight to Kendall's hideout. A cautionary tale, if only I'd paid attention. "Logan's right. Gory's people have expended a lot of resources to find us. Yes, the Russian mob is known to be ruthless, and they don't like to leave witnesses. But Gory's family isn't going to put up with this extreme response over a brawl."

"I don't understand."

"Exactly. There's something going on here that we don't understand. But we're not going to figure it out tonight. Do you think you kids can settle down and get some sleep now? Emphasis on the word 'sleep'. Veronica needs to get her rest." There's a strangely soft tone to Dad's instructions, and I wonder if he wishes that he could still be the one to rock me to sleep. Logan throws off the covers to return to the bedroom, but Dad puts a hand on his shoulder and stops him. "It's okay. Stay here. Just try to get to sleep."

"Um, all right, Mr. Mars," Logan stammers.

"Take care of her, all right? And, uh, Logan? If we're going to be living together like this, I think you should start calling me Keith instead of Mr. Mars. Good night, honey."

Dad hits the light, and Logan takes me into his arms again. "No more thinking, okay?" he whispers.

There are no words between us now: just warmth, gentle skin upon skin, and intermingled exhalations. Muscle fibers relax and synapses shut down for programmed regeneration. The darkness covers me like a blanket.

The journey sloughs off me. I am here. I made it.

I am alive.

I am...

•••••

I wake up gradually. I'm not thrown out of sleep by the terrible images of a nightmare. It's weird to become conscious without being racked with anxiety.

I prop myself up on an elbow and look at him. He is an immovable form beside me, almost twice my mass. A polygon of sunlight from the window above falls on his chest, a chiaroscuro effect on his sheeted body. His arm is thrown up above his head, careless and relaxed; there's a childlike innocence on his face, with no smart remarks to dispel the image. Fading Sharpie facsimiles of evil and ugliness—I remember the blunt panic I'd felt as I drew the tattoos. They'd probably saved his life, along with that slight bristle of hair on his scalp.

He's a mess. Impulsive and foolish. Immature, and prone to solving his problems with his fists or a bottle of tequila. Somehow he's stumbled through life without killing himself or racking up serious prison time. But when he decides that he loves you? It's forever. His mother, Lilly, me. Dick, too.

Is that what I love about him? The way that he loves me.That unconditional, epic love that he admits so freely.

Dangerous territory, Veronica.

Well, I definitely need him. And I think I love him. I just can't understand how it always gets so jumbled up in resentment and suspicion and self-righteousness.

I remember worrying about him while we were separated. It was just impulse and instinct, a certainty that somewhere in the world there was somebody that I...that I loved. That's the only word for it. Why is this so hard for me?

"I thought we said no thinking for you," he mumbles, barely audible. "Come here." Logan pulls me on top of him, his mouth right up against my ear. "Do you want to know how I entertained myself on that bus for two and a half days?"

He adjusts himself slightly so that I can feel his arousal, weighty and firm against my thigh. Lovely memories of morning sex flood my brain—vivid snapshots of contorted positions and impossible exertions, heated flesh and the sound of two bodies working together on a goal as old as time. "We can't," I whisper. "Dad's in the other room, and, you know, the other thing he said—"

His breath tickles my ear. "We'll be careful. Extra careful. You know me, I'm a Boy Scout. Well, at least, I've completed the sex merit badge." His tongue flicks my ear lobe. "Remind you of anything fun? Something you used to enjoy quite a lot, if memory serves."

"Don't," I exhale, but he ignores me, his hand finding the cleft between my ass cheeks. His fingers touch me, a wisp of desire, whispered but persistent through the material of my sleep shorts. I should roll off him, should get dressed and make breakfast, but I sink into his body, my taut muscles loosening for the first time in five days. It doesn't feel bad that he's so horny for me. It's been so long since I've felt good.

And I love him, right? I need him. I love him. It's not weird to love somebody even though you resent them for having an easier time than you did. I need him.

"We can be quiet. At least I can be quiet. How about you?" His hand insinuates itself under my waistband, stroking that sensitive valley almost casually. He's always adored my ass—I remember text messages about my short skirts and wanting to bite my ass all over, and then squirming in my seat all during Landry's class. And one memorable time, letting him take me from behind in the empty classroom after everyone had left.

He's always loved driving me crazy with gentle strokes. It's like he takes notes on me and studies them—Professor Echolls, Advanced Topics in Women's Sexuality. He has a dangerous competence with his hands, responding to my helpless cues to bring me to the edge and then keep me there until I beg for release. There's no thinking when those hands are on my body, no thinking at all, and that's really dangerous. Slender fingers brushing over sensitive skin, erasing all my inhibitions. And I love it. I love that 'no thinking'.

I love him. I need him. It's going to be different this time. I love it, I mean, him.

Just when I'm about to scream at his patience, he dips lower, between my legs, and the little that's left of my puritanical resolutions is completely lost. Dammit. I hate it when he controls me like this.

Sort of. Well. Not really.

I suppress a groan and whisper, "You're cruel." It's an insistent pressure on my core now, demanding my attention. His eyes are locked on mine, the pupils dilated with arousal. Bedroom eyes, I think, this is what they mean.

He's always been able to talk you into bed, hasn't he?

I let out a little gasp when his finger slides into me, and he puts his other hand over my mouth. "Shh. Veronica, you've got to try to be quiet." His finger stills, and fuck, I can't stand it—I wriggle against his hardness. Logan's palm suffocates my helpless moan, and I tell my stupid conscience to shut the fuck up and let me have some fun. My legs spread, and I press my pelvis into him with a shudder. It's been so long. So long. Months since we were together.

He lets my mouth go and kisses me, his tongue pressing for entrance as his finger dips inside me. Another groan escapes my lips despite my efforts to be silent. "Please, Logan, Dad will hear us."

His smile is wicked and amused. Logan whispers, "I think he already left."

Dislodging myself from him with a gasp, I jump up from the bed. The bedroom door is ajar and the room beyond unoccupied. Spotting a folded sheet of paper on the kitchen table, I walk over to read it. 'Veronica, please take it easy today—plenty to time to job hunt tomorrow. Corn flakes in the cupboard and eggs in the fridge. I want to talk about what happened in Chicago. Home around 1pm.'

"You knew he'd already left?" I say in a normal tone, approaching the sofabed.

He scoots up a little and laces his fingers behind his head. "He starts working around the apartment complex at 7am." Logan's head motions toward the clock: 7:20am.

"And you didn't tell me?"

"I just did!"

"You bastard. 'You've got to try to be quiet,'" I say, mockingly.

"Like you didn't think it was hot!"

I grab the pillow and smack him hard in the chest. He's completely unprepared, with his arms still behind his head, and I get in a good shot.

"Oh, you're gonna get it." Logan throws off the sheet and chases me. I dart around the couch, sticking my tongue out at him. He almost snares me, but I slip out of his grasp and run for the kitchen area. It's absurd—a cartoonish chase in the tiny apartment—and with a few long steps he's caught up to me and backed me up against the refrigerator. He snorts at my pretend panic, and throws me over his shoulder and carries me to the bed.

I'm laughing. I haven't laughed in so long. It feels rusty and creaky, and maybe a little forbidden. It feels good.

He puts me down on my back and crawls on top of me, grabbing my wrists with one hand and letting his weight trap the rest of me. Logan caresses my cheek. "I promise I'm going to make you laugh like this every day. Even if I have to tickle you to do it," he says. Lifting my shirt, he blows a raspberry on my stomach. I completely lose it, giggling breathlessly. He wiggles his eyebrows and splays his fingers on my ribs, threatening to tickle me.

"No, please, no! No tickling!"

His voice suddenly turns gravelly. "Then let me love you. God, Veronica. I've missed you so much. We can just fool around a little bit—I promise we'll be careful."

He's stroking my hair and kissing my neck, and it's so tempting to just rip my clothes off and do it, for god's sake. I struggle to remember why it is that we're supposed to be going slow, why we need to be careful. This is the part of a relationship that we're actually good at. I remember the last time we got back together we didn't say more than five words to each other before the next morning, unless you count "Feels so good" and "Oh, baby" as conversation. I never did find my bra that night.

Maybe you didn't talk because sex is all you have. You love him because he loves you, and you're just a narcissist, lapping up all the adoration. Relationships aren't supposed to be this hard. You screwed it up last time obsessing about Madison—how are you gonna screw it up this time, and what the hell do you do when it's three people on the lam and two of them aren't speaking?

"Hey...what are you thinking about?" he whispers. "Are you okay? You zoned out on me." Logan strokes my stomach under my shirt, and it feels very nice. It almost feels nice enough to shut up the voices in my head.

"I was thinking about the last time we got back together."

He waits for me to explain.

I struggle to put it in words. "Just...how easy it was for us to screw it all up. Well, for me to screw it up. It just kind of makes me nervous, with the three of us—what did you call it? Oh yeah, a wacky sitcom family. A wacky sitcom family on the lam."

He appears to be thinking of a response, and then he says, "Hold on. I'll be right back."

He reappears after a couple minutes and puts two boxes on the bed. Extra-strength Trojans, 'guaranteed not to break'. I feel a little sick, and start to speak, but he puts a finger on my lips to silence me. "I want to tell you something. I bought these somewhere in Bumfuck, Georgia, because I love you and I'd been fantasizing about you for twenty hours straight. And if you ever decide to go to bed with me again, it's going to be careful. As careful as it can be. I'll double-bag if you want. Are you still on the pill?"

I nod, and try to speak again, but he says, "Let me talk. A condom and the pill—that's pretty safe, right? But you don't have to have sex with me. I know it's not just the pregnancy thing. I don't want this to blow up either, or for it to get weird with your dad. He's just starting to like me. We watched the ballgame last night. It was cool. He's cool. He's trying with me for the first time. But Veronica, I miss you. I miss making love to you. I'm horny all the time, and I can't help thinking about it. I'm sorry that I'm a giant walking boner. But I swear I'm not going to push you. You say 'no', and we stop."

"Actually, I think using two condoms is worse than just one. Apparently friction, rubber against rubber, not a good combo." I shrug.

"Well, then, Dick is totally screwed."

"In more ways than one." He looks at me, expectant, all earnest and devoted—what every girl should want. Except it's blown up in our faces three times now. What the hell is wrong with us? What the hell is wrong with me? I say, "I wish they made condoms for psychological problems."

"You know, I believe in 'us'. No matter how many times we broke up, in the future I always saw you and me together."

Sure, you say that now. What was that crap about 'unbearable pain' last fall?

He must see the doubt on my face, because he says, "We'll figure it out. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to pressure you about having sex. I know you're upset about what happened in Chicago."

"Yeah. Logan, I—" I want to say, thanks for holding me last night, I need you, I love you, but I'm a lunatic right now, I want to make love to you too, I want this to work as much as you do. But the words stick in my throat, and I just say, "We'll figure it out. You weren't pressuring me. I— It felt good. I'm just...like you said, I'm upset about what happened in Chicago."

"If we put an ice pack on my crotch, I could probably stand to cuddle you without mauling you." He smiles at me, that dazzling Echolls smile that made his father a Hollywood star.

"Hah. You must not love me very much if a mere ice pack would slow you down. And besides, I'm not really in the mood to torture your manparts today. Maybe a little breakfast instead?"

And it feels okay to laugh a little with each other. We're pretty okay, for now.

Love takes time, right?