AN: Okay… so remember ages ago when I mentioned in the author's notes of BLP that I was working on a Mithcum/Logan centric one-shot? If you do, you might have assumed that I'd given up on it, because it was so long ago. But, I haven't. What happened was that (per my typical M.O.) it got way too long to be a single one shot. I've been struggling so much trying to widdle it down, But I wasn't just killing my darlings, I was massacring them. So, I have decided to make it a short fic instead.

It's told in Mitchum's POV, which may not be everyone's cup of tea. And Rory is mostly in the background. So there is not a ton of straight Rogan content. However, Rogan is the primary theme. I hope you will at least give it a chance if that doesn't seem exactly your cup of tea right away. It also has no ties at all to the world of BLP. It is a stand alone piece.

I have the majority of it already written, so hopefully updates will come quickly. And I will try my best not to let it get in the way of consistent BLP updates. Anyway, here goes. I really hope you guys like this.

"Kid, be my son. What I've done to you is rotten. Say, I was scared. I kept marching in one place.

Marching in time to at tune I'd forgotten. I loved you. I love you. I meant no disgrace.

This, here, is love – when we're talking face to face.

Father to son, I for one would take love slower. I made my choice. You can sing a different song.

Watch as you sing how your voice gets much lower. You'll be, kid. A man, kid. If nothing goes wrong.

Sing for yourself as you march along."

The Party

"Shira!"

The booming voice of Mitchum Huntzberger echoed through the halls of his massive Connecticut home. He was standing in his bedroom, furiously digging through the contents of his watch box, cursing everyone and everything responsible for putting him in this position. When he didn't get a response from his wife, he yelled again.

"Shira!"

"What?!" she called back to him. Her voice was shrill but faint as it drifted upward from the living room at the bottom of the stairs.

"Where are my navy Mont Blanc cufflinks?!" he asked.

His fingers were still picking through the collection of miscellaneous jewelry, cufflinks, watch batteries, and dozens of other indiscriminate items that had accumulated in the bottom drawer of the box over the years. But, try as he might, he couldn't seem to locate the objects of his desire.

"Why would I know, Mitchum?!" Shira called. "They should be in your watch box!"

"Well they're not!"

"Well, then wear a different pair! We're late!"

Mitchum slammed the bottom drawer of his watch box closed just a little too hard. Annoyance and frustration were coursing through every single vein in his body. Apparently they were late. They were late for a party that he didn't even want to attend in the first place and hadn't even been made aware of until he'd arrived home yesterday fresh off a red eye from D.C.

He was exhausted. The week had passed by in a furious and frenzied blur – most election weeks did when you worked in the media. He was once again running on four hours of sleep, and he'd just arrived home from a two and a half hour commute from the New York office only to find his navy blue suit laid out on the bed and a less than pleased wife smoking on the back patio – a wife who never stopped to think that maybe tonight wasn't the best night to commit Mitchum to attending yet another asinine party.

He was supposed to have arrived home over an hour ago, but he just hadn't been able to make it work. Frankly, he didn't even attempt to make it work. Unlike his wife, attending yet another Friday night social function was not his biggest priority. In fact, as far as his priorities went, it ranked pretty much as close to the bottom as one could get.

Still, he knew there was no sense fighting it. They were going to this party whether he liked it or not, and nothing was going to keep Shira from making sure it happened. Twenty-six years of marriage had left him perfectly aware of that fact, and it wasn't a battle that was forth fighting. This battle called for a white flag. He'd fight his battles tomorrow by insisting that he be left alone to catch up on some sleep, pop the cork off the bottle of Macallan 18 Sherry Oak that his sister had sent him for his birthday, and finally crack open Plan of Attack so Bob wouldn't catch him in an another obvious lie the next time he went to D.C.

For now, however, he would find an alternative pair of cufflinks, straighten his tie, and slap a smile on his face to make his wife happy. Because, when Shira was happy, Mitchum was happy – or at the very least grateful for the silence.

Realizing that it would be in his best interest not to waste any more time, Mitchum opened the middle drawer of his watch box and picked out a pair of generic silver bar cufflinks and finished getting dressed. As he started walking down the hall and the stairway, he called out to Shira again.

"How long exactly do we need to stay at this thing?" he asked. "Cause I'd love to be home by ten!"

"Good plan," an unexpected voice responded as he reached the bottom of the stairs. "Wouldn't want you to turn into a pumpkin."

Mitchum startled as his eyes landed on the sight of his youngest child sitting on the couch in his living room, dressed as if he were going somewhere. He was donned in a grey suit and black turtle neck combo, and his hair was tousled in that deliberately messy way that kids these days seemed to find fashionable – not that Logan ever needed to be deliberate about his hair looking tousled. He remembered plenty of battles over the years as Shira would try to get their very hyperactive very impatient son to sit still as she attempted to tame the naturally messy waves on his head to no avail.

He was nursing a glass of scotch, and Mitchum suppressed a frustrated groan as he realized that it was probably from the coveted bottle of Macallan that he had just moments ago been looking forward to opening himself. He very briefly thought about kicking himself for being stupid enough to keep any bottle of Macallan out in the open when Logan was around. But, then, Logan wasn't supposed to live here anymore. So, how should he have known to be prepared for this?

"What the hell are you doing here?" he asked, quirking an eyebrow at his son.

"It's nice to see you too, Dad," Logan replied. "I'm great. Thanks for asking."

Mitchum wasn't amused. He'd always thought that kids were supposed to outgrow this – the need to be sarcastic and quarrelsome with their parents at every single given opportunity. Yet, Logan never had. The kid was twenty-one years old – twenty-two in just a few short months - and he had moved out of their house three years ago. Still, he acted like a petulant fifteen year old every time he saw them. The kid's smart mouth drove him absolutely crazy and not just because of the contemptuous lack of respect that accompanied it. He also had to constantly bite his tongue to keep from screaming at him about all of the things Elias would have said and done to him if he had talked to his father that way.

Logan had no idea how easy his life was. How lucky he was to have Mitchum as a father instead of his grandfather. Or, God forbid, his great-grandfather. That man made Ted Bundy look like Santa Claus.

"I don't know why you're here, what you did, or what you want. But your mother and I are going to a party this evening so I don't have time to - "

"I know," answered Logan.

"You know?" Mitchum asked. Logan nodded. "Then why are you here?"

"Well…" said Logan. "I know you'll be heartbroken to hear that I didn't just drop by tonight to spend some quality father-son bonding time with you. But, I'm here because I was invited. I go to Yale, you know."

Mitchum didn't need a reminder that Logan went to Yale. The $40,000 check he had just written to the bursar was more than enough reminder of the fact. It was a lot of money to shell out every year to fund what seemed to be Logan's ability to do nothing but blow off his school work, drink endless amounts of alcohol, smoke copious amounts of pot, and fuck a never-ending line of co-eds seeking their MRS degrees.

Mitchum was perfectly aware that Logan went to Yale. But, that didn't explain why he was coming to this party. Mitchum didn't even want to go to this party. He definitelydidn't understand why his twenty-one-year-old son would voluntarily agree to spend his Friday night mingling among a group of old Yale alumni over cocktails and the ambient sounds of smooth jazz. He didn't even seem upset about it, which meant that he probably couldn't even blame Shira for somehow coercing him into it.

"Finally! Let's go! We should have left thirty minutes ago," Shira called as she walked into the living room from outside. Judging by the faint smell of smoke and the open Altoid tin in her hand, it was clear that she had been smoking the entire time Mitchum was upstairs. It was enough to make him briefly consider backing out and heading right back upstairs. After all, he was only doing this to appease his wife, and if she was already upset enough with him to be smoking minutes before leaving for a cocktail party, then the point seemed moot. But, then he thought better of it.

Logan stood up from his seat on the couch, knocking back the rest of his drink with one tilt of his head. Mitchum suppressed a groan at the sight of his expensive single malt whiskey was being treated like a shot of Jameson, but he supposed it was better than the drink going unfinished. In truth, he didn't know what he was more upset with, the fact that Logan was wasting his prized birthday scotch or the fact that only one of them had the benefit of a drink running through their bloodstream at this particular moment.

"Honestly, Logan…" Shira continued. She looked their son up and down, frowning at his choice of outfit. "You couldn't manage to wear a tie? Or did you just not have a single pressed shirt you could have worn under that suit?"

"Unfortunately, Berkeley College's laundry service was disbanded last year due to budget cuts."

Shira rolled her eyes and shoved her Altoid tin into her clutch. Grabbing their son's arm, she pushed him through the house in the direction of the garage.

"Don't be smart," she said. "Get in the car."

On the way to their destination, Mitchum found himself watching Logan through the rearview mirror more times than he had since he was probably about ten years old. Suspicion. That had always been the primary motivator. Logan had been a troublesome and mischievous child. He was loud and boisterous, and when he got too hyper it was almost certain that he was about to find a way to cause problems. If he went more than a couple seconds without a pair of eyes on him or a stern voice telling him to sit down and stop whatever it was that he was doing, chaos would almost always reign.

Now… well now Logan was just as troublesome and mischievous, but the tells were different (and the consequences far more expensive). Where Mitchum had once been able to tell he was up to something by his energetic and erratic behavior, now it was the quiet that caused him to feel a foreboding sense of unease. Logan's hyperactivity had settled since he was a boy, but 'quiet' was still not a term one could use to accurately describe him.

Tonight, Logan was being quiet. He'd been distracted since they climbed in the car, answering his mother's prattling questions and commentaries with nothing more than a handful of monosyllabic responses and a couple 'that's great, Moms.' He hadn't even objected or rolled his eyes when Shira had gone on about how Margorie and Ted Fallon were sure to be at the party this evening with their daughter Heather, and she was just dying to introduce them. Heather went to Bryn Mawr, you know. The grunt of acknowledgement Logan had given her lacked an ounce of protest, and Mitchum had to wonder if the boy had even heard the words that had come out of his mother's mouth.

Much to both Logan and Mitchum's annoyance and dismay, Shira had dedicated almost all of her energy in the last year to ensuring that the future Mrs. Logan Huntzberger was on the scene by the time he graduated. According to Shira, they had no time to waste. Logan had never even brought a girl home, and people would be expecting an engagement not long after he finished school. They were running out of time for him to meet a nice girl, have an adequate courtship followed by an appropriately long engagement, and have Logan married off and making heirs by the time he was in his late twenties.

Logan's reaction to her attempts to sell him off like a prized stallion were typically much more confrontational and quarrelsome than his behavior at the current moment. Shira seemed pleased with the development, but Mitchum knew better. He'd listened to Logan rant and rave about the subject too many times to suddenly think he was perfectly happy to meet Heather Fallon at his mother's bequest. And, in truth, Mitchum wouldn't have needed to hear Logan's thoughts about his mother's meddling to know how he felt.

He knew exactly how Logan felt. He knew because he had been put through the same exhausting and embarrassing ordeal when he was his son's age. His family had always been far too concerned with his personal life, so concerned that his personal life had stopped feeling personal and started feeling like an item on the agenda of a board meeting.

Logan drove him absolutely crazy, and it was true that they hardly had the most functional of relationships… but he wasn't going to do that to his son. He'd promised himself a long time ago that he wouldn't do that to his son. He'd made that promise to himself before he even had a son or knew if he ever would. And he hadn't only promised himself. He'd promised someone else the same thing, someone who he'd broken too many promises to. But, he still had the power to keep this one, even if he was the only person who would ever know about it.

Mitchum would never get involved in Logan's life that way, even if it meant disturbing the already precarious peace between himself and his wife.

The only explanation for Logan's lack of protest was that he was distracted, distracted by the sight of the passing houses outside of his car window, distracted by the messages on his phone – or perhaps the lack thereof. In the fifteen minutes they had been driving, Logan had flipped open his phone so many times that he had eventually stopped putting it back in his pocket. The small silver device was now attached permanently to his hand as if he were waiting for something or checking on something.

His knee was bouncing, evidence of the fact that whatever was going on in his head wasn't matching his state of apathy on the outside. He was anxious – worried even. Mitchum might have even thought that the kid was upset at the fact that they were running late. It was one of the most baffling displays of behavior he had ever seen from his son. But, it was quickly topped when they pulled into the driveway of their destination and Logan all but jumped out of the car once it was in park. It was when he made a beeline for the door, almost leaving him and Shira in the dust behind him when Mitchum finally felt the need to say something.

"What the hell is up with you?" he asked as Logan reached forward and pressed the doorbell. The chime sounded around them, and Logan narrowed his eyes.

"Nothing…" he said with a shrug. His scrutinizing tone made it sound as if Mitchum was the one being unreasonable or acting erratically, but he knew that wasn't the case. Even the maid knew that wasn't the case when Logan all but shoved his coat at her once the door was open and almost trampled her on his way into the house.

"Sorry…" Mitchum mumbled to the young girl on behalf of his son. She merely smiled timidly at him as she left to put their coats away.

As they turned to the left and started to make their way into the bustling party around them, Mitchum looked around at his surroundings and was suddenly hit with a startling and groan-inducing realization. Their hostess had pulled out all the stops. Every table set up in the house was covered in the finest blue linen and opulent flower arrangements. The catering staff was walking around with trays full of the finest hors d'oeuvres. The entire house was packed with an impressive guest list…

Napoleon and Bunny Barnes with their son, Kip. Arthur and Rita Campbell with their son, Dustin. Steven and Rosemary McAllister with their son, Brooks. Joseph and Phyllis Martindale with their son, Alex.

He suddenly had the distinct feeling that Margorie Ted Fallon were not going to be in attendance with their daughter, Heather.

"Dear God…" Shira said through a smile and clenched teeth, as she slipped her hand through his arm and squeezed. "We've brought our son to a meat market."

Mitchum couldn't help but think that it served her right. In fact, he was far more amused than annoyed with this turn of events. Mitchum turned to his right, expecting to see a look of utter disgust and displeasure on Logan's face as he started teasing him about where to set his opening auction price. Yet, true to his strange and out of character behavior, Logan didn't seem concerned at all. He was too busy looking around the room with rapt concentration. As if to find something… or someone.

"Mitchum! Shira!"

As the sounds of their names pierced through the crowd in a cheerful and melodic tone of voice, their attention became focused on the sight of their hostess walking toward them with a beaming smile and her arms open to welcome them. Mitchum took a deep breath, preparing himself to put on airs and keep them there for the rest of the evening, and then he elbowed his son next to him, focusing his attention back to the present reality. Logan startled next to him and almost looked sheepish before clearing his throat.

"Emily!" Shira said, matching the other woman's saccharine tone to a T. She slipped her arm out of Mitchum's and stepped forward, greeting the older woman with two kisses on the cheek. "These new draperies are absolutely divine! You must send me your decorator's information."

"Why, thank you, Shira. I'll have it to you tomorrow!" Emily said. "Hello, Mitchum."

"Emily. You look lovey." The woman's eyes flitted past Mitchum and landed on Logan. She smiled a shit-eating grin and Mitchum could feel his wife physically recoil into herself at the sight of it.

"And this can't be Logan."

"Afraid so," Mitchum answered. Next to him, he felt Logan tense, as if he could sense some sort of slight packed into the words – a slight that hadn't been intended but was perceived nonetheless.

"My God, the time does fly…" said Emily. "You've certainly gotten taller since the last time I saw you."

"And yet the Knicks still want nothing to do with me," Logan said with a smooth and steady charm that Mitchum found simultaneously annoying and beneficial.

The ladies tittered at the comment, but Mitchum had to suppress an eyeroll. Logan's effortless charisma got him into and out of more problems than Mitchum deemed appropriate, but he'd be lying if he didn't realize what an asset it was going to be to the business in a few years' time. Logan was the kind of person who could sell sawdust to a lumber mill. At times, Mitchum thought his son might even be better at negotiating and charming his way through life than he was. And that was saying a lot.

"It's so nice to see you again, Emily," Logan continued. "If you'll excuse me, I think I see a friend of mine from one of my econ classes. I've been meaning to chat with him about our lecture yesterday."

Mitchum wasn't sure he'd ever heard that much bullshit come out of Logan's mouth at one time. He had to clear his throat to keep from scoffing.

"Of course, Logan. You go on," said Emily. "I'm sure you kids will have much more to talk about than us boring old folks."

Emily's eyes lingered on Logan as he walked through the living room and out to the back patio. Mitchum's gaze followed him as well. His brow furrowed as he continued to move as if he were on a mission. Logan wanted something. He came here for something. And Mitchum had a feeling it didn't have anything to do with an econ classmate.

"That's a handsome young man you have there, Shira," said Emily.

Shira's hand was suddenly grabbing onto his arm again. The only thing keeping his skin from being punctured by his wife's perfectly manicured fingers were the layers of his shirt and suit jacket. Even so, she was holding on to him so tightly that it was still slightly uncomfortable.

"He's a charmer," Shira chimed, keeping her tone light despite her no doubt murderous state of mind.

"Well the apple doesn't fall far from the tree," Emily said, smiling at Mitchum.

He pursed his lips to keep in a chortle and forced a smile in return. People always like to pretend that he and Logan had far more in common than they actually did. Logan had his square jaw and his cheekbones. They shared a chin and a head of blond hair – though his had long ago darkened on the sides with age. And, admittedly, it seemed that Logan had inherited his ability to walk into any room full of strangers and leave with a handful of friends. But, that was about where the resemblance stopped. The older Logan got, the clearer is became that they were very different people.

"I think the apple got shipped to China a while go, actually," he replied.

Emily chimed in with protestations, but they were met on mostly deaf ears. Even Shira didn't bother trying to correct him. She knew he was right just as well as he did. Plus, he was distracted trying to figure out exactly where Logan had run off to in such a hurry. He'd walked right past the bar, and out of the corner of his eye Mitchum could see Colin suffering through a conversation with his father with Logan nowhere in sight. If he wasn't here for the free drinks, and he wasn't here to meet up with his best friend, then Mitchum really had no idea what was going on with his son.

"You know… my granddaughter, Rory, is here tonight. I would just love to introduce them…" Emily continued. All the while, Shira's death grip on his arm intensified. Apparently, she did not think that was a good idea. Though, Mitchum couldn't understand why. After all, not fifteen minutes ago Shira had been ready to sell Logan off to Heather Fallon. He didn't see why the change in feminine party really made all that much of a difference.

"… that is if they haven't met already."

Suddenly, Mitchum's interest was piqued.

"Oh?" Shira squeaked. "What makes you say that?"

"Well, Rory is on the paper," she said, as if it was the most obvious fact in the world. Although, now that he thought of it, he probably should know that. Richard had mentioned it before. In fact, he'd talked his ear off about it the last time they'd seen each other at the club. "And I assume Logan is back on staff…"

"Yes," Mitchum replied after clearing his throat. Logan was back on staff at The Daily News. In theory. Of course, he would actually have to write something in order for that theory to become practice.

"Well… there you go," said Emily. "They're probably already friends!"

Something clicked at that moment, and an uneasy feeling settled in his chest. He started looking around the house again, wondering if he could catch a glimpse of what Logan was up to outside. Unfortunately, from his position near the stairway he wasn't able to see much of anything.

"Ladies," he said. "If you'll excuse me, I'm overdue for a drink…"

Shira gave him a look that could kill as he broke away from her grip and left her there to fend off Emily Gilmore's attempts to marry her granddaughter off to their only son. She quickly covered it up, however, when Emily drew her attention back with more questions about Logan and Honor and whether or not she was ever going to marry 'that Bartlett boy.' They seemed to be getting that question often lately. So often, Mitchum was starting to assume it was only a matter of time before he was signing checks for a $700,000 wedding – probably more knowing his daughter.

But, right now, his focus wasn't on the inevitable nuptials of his oldest. Right now, his attention was on the motivations and preoccupations of his youngest. He was starting to think that he had an understanding of why Logan had been so eager to accompany them to the Gilmores' house this evening, and he was definitely feeling anxious about it.

He made his way through the living room, waving at friends and acquaintances as he walked toward the bar. Though, as much as he did need a drink, it hadn't been his primary impetus for walking through the house. He was trying to catch a glance of Logan, trying to see if he could make him out through the French doors and windows. Yet, before Mitchum could track him down to tell him to stay the hell away from Richard and Emily Gilmore's granddaughter, he realized that he was too late.

"Well apparently she's already with Logan Huntzberger."

Dread settled in Mitchum's body like a ball of lead in his gut. He turned his head to the right and found the Chase family standing not ten feet away from his current position in line at the bar. The boy – Mitchum couldn't recall his name – seemed genuinely upset, and all three of them kept snapping their glances to the window on Mitchum's left.

Sure enough, when he followed Hillary Chase's glance out to the patio, his eyes finally landed on a head of familiar blond hair. Logan was standing across from a girlish but pretty doe-eyed brunette who was looking up at him with an air of gratitude and… familiarity.

He dare not think about what the level of familiarity between them implied. He prayed to the good Lord in Heaven that he didn't even believe in to bless him with the reassurance that it amounted to nothing more than a friendly relationship between two colleagues. But, Mitchum knew Logan. Logan was rarely interested in girls he didn't want to have sex with, and he was so petrified of commitment that even pretending to be involved with the young Gilmore girl in an effort to save her from the Chase boy was a meaningful gesture.

He only hoped it meant nothing to the girl.

"I can't believe you left me alone with her!"

Startled out of his investigation, Mitchum flinched at the sound of his wife's heated voice as she settled herself next to him in line. He did a quick glance over his shoulders, making sure that no one was close enough to hear or see Shira slip from her social façade into her actual personality. Usually they were well on their way home before that happened, but tonight had her coming out in record time.

"I needed a drink," Mitchum responded as he set his empty glass on the counter in front of him and smiled at the bar tender. "Vodka rocks please."

"And I don't?" Shira murmured under her breath.

"And a gin and tonic."

The bar tender made quick work of pouring, and Mitchum left him a generous tip for having the insight to mix Shira's first. She brought it to her lips as soon as it was in her hand, and as soon as they were both set he nudged her gently off to the side of the bar.

"What I really need is a cigarette," she grumbled. "You should have heard her go on about how perfect Logan and Rory would be for each other. You know she's just trying to sell her off to him so we can land her a prestigious job after she graduates."

Mitchum wasn't sure that was Emily's motive at all. After all, she was currently on the other side of the room working Jane and Edward Campbell just as hard as she had them two minutes ago. As far as he was aware, the girl had no culinary aspirations or particular interest in soups. But, then, he didn't actually know her.

"I can't believe we got tricked into this," Shira continued. "As if we would ever support the idea of a girl like Rory being involved with Logan…"

Mitchum's brow furrowed at that comment. He wasn't quite sure where she was coming from in that regard. Granted, he hadn't actually met her, but Rory seemed like a perfectly nice girl on paper. From what he'd heard from Richard over the years, she seemed smart and driven. She came from a prominent family. She was certainly pretty and he doubted Logan was blind to that – it was most likely why he was out there talking to her to begin with. All in all Rory seemed… fine. Better than the endless string of vacuous tarts Logan usually associated with at any rate.

Mitchum was uneasy with the fact that Logan was paying so much attention to the girl but as far as he was concerned, Rory wasn't the issue.

"What's wrong with Rory?" he asked.

"Mitchum," Shira scoffed, looking at him as if he'd grown not one but two extra heads. "What isn't wrong with Rory?"

Mitchum didn't respond. There was no need. The question was hypothetical, and he was well aware of the point his wife was trying to make. He'd heard the message enough times from his own father when he was Logan's age. He was well-versed in what qualified as the "right kind of woman" for the heir of the Huntzberger fortune. Very well versed.

He shoved down a pang in his heart that he'd spend twenty-seven years trying to bury, and sighed.

"Shira… just leave it," he said. "Look around. This party is a joke, and Logan… is Logan. Just… drink and make the rounds and we can go home."

Over his wife's head, Mitchum watched through the window as Logan led Rory over to an ice bucket and grabbed a bottle of champagne – a sure fire sign that he was getting ready to grab his friends and abscond over to a faraway corner to spend the evening together at a warped version of a kids' table. He wasn't all that concerned with that. It was how Logan usually handled these kind of events. What concerned him, however, was how eager the young Miss Gilmore seemed to be to follow him.

He pulled Shira away from the window, deciding the best course of action would be to keep her from finding out about their son's unique interest in Richard and Emily's granddaughter. After all, it was probably nothing more than a passing fancy, and Logan's passing fancies usually passed faster than the speed of light.

He'd most likely be bored of the Gilmore girl by the morning. And, even if that wasn't the case, he certainly wasn't going to get involved.

TBC…

AN: As always, please leave a review. I'd really like to know what you all think of this, so I know whether or not I'm wasting my time. Lol. Thanks for reading!