October 1987

Mitchum reached up to rub at his weary eyes as he made his way up the walk to the front door. It was after nine already and he'd been at the office since before dawn. These Bork hearings were getting contentious and keeping up with the slew of accusations, insults, and conflicts and making sure all his papers covered it throughly and fairly was a job of work in itself…not to mention the rest of the news happening in the world. Fortunately, the vote was expected any day now, and Mitchum was staring to think the senate might actually deny his nomination. Of course, as a journalist, Mitchum was neutral. But then again, as a journalist, Bork's views on free speech were troubling…to state it lightly. Also, Mitchum was far from a liberal, but the man wanted to overturn Roe v Wade. Hell, he opposed Griswald and the damn Civil Right Act. Bork was just too extreme for his tastes, and should the nomination fail like he expected it to, Mitchum would hardly mourn the moment in history.

He entered the foyer, shucking off his jacket and making his way in. He hoped there were some decent leftovers in the fridge, he'd barely eaten all day and he needed something with some hemoglobin in it; not one of those precious fish dishes Shira loved to make him eat. He breathed a sigh of relief when he opened the refrigerator, pulled out the plate the maid had left for him, and unwrapped it to the sight of roast beef and mashed potatoes. He was about to stick it in the oven when a crashing sound punctuated the silence. It sounded like it was coming from down the hall in the den. He glanced at his watch to see it was nearly nine-thirty. The kids should have been upstairs in bed by now. And he'd thought Shira had her weekly canasta game on Tuesdays. He set the plate back down and went to investigate.

As he made his way towards the back of the house, the voice of his five-year-old son met his ears. "Yippee-yi-o-ki-yay," Logan squealed with the enthusiasm of a boy who had had way too much sugar. Mitchum could hear the sounds of the TV on in the room as well. What the hell was going on? All Mitchum wanted was to eat his roast beef in silence and then go watch the episode of Matlock he secretly taped on the VCR in his office; even important businessmen were allowed the occasional guilty pleasure, weren't they? But alas, it looked like Mitchum was not going to get the evening he'd hoped for.

He pushed open the door to the TV room. The television was blaring some cowboy cartoon where the cowboys were shooting laser guns. Logan was dressed in the red cowboy hat and boots that were meant to be his Halloween costume for next week as he galloped back and forth in front of the TV on his hobby horse blasting a—fortunately empty—water gun at the ceiling. A lamp was knocked over and toys were scattered everywhere like a minefield of plastic armed to blast annoying kid jingles at you if you made the slightest misstep. Shira was prostrate on the winged back chair in a robe, a wet cloth over her eyes.

"What's going on here?" Mitchum asked.

Logan stopped hee-hawing, dropped his hobby horse, and came barreling at Mitchum's legs like a forty-pound runaway train. "Daaaaaaad!" he yelled wrapping his arms around Mitchum's legs and almost toppling him over.

Shira peeled the cloth from her eyes. "I see you finally decided to grace us with your presence."

"What the hell is he still doing up?" Mitchum growled at his wife as Logan tugged persistently at his rumpled suit jacket.

"Dad! Dad! Dad! Dad! Dad!" Logan chanted.

"It's like he ate a bag of espresso beans or something. And where the hell is the Nanny?"

"The Nanny quit," Shira informed him.

"Dad!" Mitchum felt another tug.

"And you couldn't take care of them for one day without letting them run amok?" Mitchum shook his head in exasperation. What did his wife even do all day other than spend his money and gossip with her friends over cocktails? It's a good thing the cook didn't quit or he'd be looking at a bowl of cereal for dinner…if that. God, he really wanted that roast beef waiting for him in the kitchen.

"Have you met your kids?" Shira griped. "I mean, outside of a quick introduction at the hospital after I pushed them out of my vagina?"

"Dad, what's a vagina?"

Mitchum looked down at the curious brown eyes staring up at him. He'd feel bad for the kid if he had the energy to. God, what it must be like to have that much energy. "It's a place Daddy hasn't been allowed near for an obscenely long time," he grumbled. At least not the one Shira was talking about.

"Well maybe if you'd get home at a reasonable hour and spend more than five seconds on foreplay…"

"Dad, what's four play? Is it like, four people that play together? Are there toys?"

"Yeah kid," Mitchum patted his unruly blonde locks. "There are toys."

"Fun! I want to play."

"Look what you did," Shira huffed.

"What I did?" Mitchum shot back. "We wouldn't even be having this conversation if you'd put the kid to bed at a normal hour."

"Right, so you wouldn't have to deal with him."

"Is Honor at least asleep?" he asked, ignoring his wife's accusation. So what if he wanted to come home to peace and quiet and not chaos. He dealt with chaos all day at work; he deserved one fucking hour to watch Matlock in peace while he ate some damn roast beef.

"I got her into bed about a half an hour ago," Shira informed him. "After agreeing to let her wear her Snow White pajamas for the fourth night in a row and promising her a pony."

"She has a pony." Mitchum threw his hands up in exasperation. That ridiculous creature cost a shitload to board and feed.

"She thinks Jerrica is lonely and needs a boyfriend."

"It's a pony for fuck's sake, not a bored housewife."

"Pony's are for girls. I want a real horse," Logan broke in. "I'm going to ride him all across the wild west, rounding up the bad guys."

"You think you can do better?" Shira asked, nodding her head at their son.

Mitchum shook his head with a sigh. If someone didn't get the kid to sleep ASAP, Mitchum was never going to get to eat. As it was, he was pretty certain he was going to fall asleep halfway through Matlock and wake up on his office couch at 2 AM with a crick in his neck so bad it would take a large, German woman with hands of steel two hours to massage out. And yet it was still better than the thought of going to bed with his wife. "Come on John Wayne," Mitchum nodded at his son. "It's time for the Duke to go to bed."

"No!" Logan put his hands on his hips and looked up at his father defiantly.

"That wasn't a request."

"I'm not tired!" Logan pouted.

Mitchum rolled his eyes at his obstinate son; the kid had way too much Huntzberger in him. "I don't care if you're tired. Your bedtime was an hour and a half ago."

"You can't make me." Logan stomped his foot.

"Watch me." Mitchum bent down to pick the kid up, planning to march him right up to his bedroom, but Logan had the speed of a kid who was fixing to break Mitchum's four-minute mile record. He ducked out of his grip and zoomed off across the room, darting around the maze of toys, keeping just out of his father's reach. At one point, he came perilously close to tripping over a Lego castle and impaling himself on one of the spires, almost causing Mitchum a heart attack. Once he'd recovered from his near-death experience, Mitchum tried again, finally managing to catch Logan, scooping him up and tossing him over his shoulder. Logan kicked and pounded his father's shoulders, trying to get away.

"No!" he screamed. "I don't want to go to bed! You can't make me!" Mitchum ignored the tantrum as he turned to walk out of the room. "Put me down! Stranger danger! Stranger danger!" he cried. "Mommmmmmmmmmmy!" Logan continued to fuss and scream the whole way down the hall, up the stairs and to his bedroom. Given the size of their house, the trek was no small feat, and Mitchum wasn't getting any younger. They finally made it to the nautical themed bedroom and Mitchum set his son down on the blue shag carpet, closing the door behind him so he couldn't get away. Logan didn't try to run. He didn't move at all; he stood right where Mitchum set him, arms crossed against his chest, a pout on his face, and unshed tears sparkling behind his eyes.

Mitchum hated to admit it, even to himself, but he felt a tiny pang of guilt at the sight. He hadn't been home in time to see his son at night in weeks. And forget putting him to bed; Mitchum couldn't remember the last time he'd ever done that. It was no wonder the kid was throwing a fit. He let out a resigned sigh. "Go put your pajamas on," he said, pointing at the dresser. Despite the command, his voice lacked the hardness it had held just a few minutes ago.

"No!" He sniffled back a sob.

"Logan…" Mitchum threw his head back in exasperation. Please don't let the kid break out the waterworks. Even Mitchum's cold, dead heart couldn't stand seeing his kids cry.

"I don't wanna."

"Look," he replied, bending down to look his son in the eye. "If you put your pajamas on and get into bed, I'll read you a book." He knew he should throw a 'brush your teeth' in there too, but if there was one thing Mitchum knew, it was how to pick your battles, and tooth brushing was not a battle he was prepared to fight that night.

"Really?" Logan asked, his eyes going wide with excitement and incredulity. Mitchum felt another pang of guilt at the thought that the mere idea of him reading his son a book was so out of the ordinary that it would garner the same reaction as telling him he'd won a trip to Disneyland.

"Really," Mitchum agreed, his shoulders sagging in capitulation.

Logan hurriedly ran to the dresser, pulling out a pair of Batman pajamas and rushing them back to put them on his bed. He took his cowboy hat off and carefully placed it on his bedside table, making sure to clear a spot for it amid the rest of the mess in the room. He then removed his boots and set them right at the foot of the bed before stripping himself of the rest of his clothes and throwing them willy nilly on the floor, in stark contrast to the care he'd taken with his cowboy paraphernalia. He quickly donned his pajamas and ran to the bookshelf to start rustling through the books, clearly on a mission to find one specific one. Once he'd successfully located his prize he rushed back over to the bed and jumped right in.

Mitchum didn't know if he was relieved, annoyed, or ashamed. Shira had had to promise Honor a pony to get her into bed. She'd clearly worn herself to the edge of sanity trying to get Logan to sleep—not that Shira had a lot of sanity to begin with. Ten minutes ago, Logan was tearing apart the den, two minutes ago he was on the verge of tears with the thought of going to bed. And then, with just five little words the kid was practically bursting to get under the covers. 'I'll read you a story.' After all the havoc he'd reeked about bedtime, all the bribes he'd clearly resisted from Shira, this was the thing that he wanted. A bedtime story from his Dad.

Mitchum walked over, taking the teal, cardboard covered book from Logan's hands and settling himself on the side of the bed.

Howdy Doody in Funland the title read. Of course, a cowboy book; he should have known. Mitchum peeled the cover open, turning to the first page of the story, featuring Howdy Doody and a clown at an amusement park.

"It was opening day at Doodyville Park," Mitchum began, trying not to roll his eyes. Doodyville Park? Really?

"No, Daddy, you have to start at the beginning."

"This is the beginning."

"No, you have to read the title. And who it's by. And the ill…ill…illuslater."

"Illustrator," Mitchum corrected.

"Illustater," Logan tried to repeat.

"Ehh, good enough." With a sigh, he turned back to the title page.

"Howdy Doody in Funland, by Edward Kean. Pictures by Art Seiden." Mitchum once again flipped back to the start of the story and the picture of the creepy clown. Mitchum hated clowns. Apparently Logan didn't seem to mind them. Unless maybe he couldn't really see the clown. Mitchum shifted himself so his son could get a better view of the pictures as he read. Logan still seemed unfazed by the appearance of the Pennywise wannabe.

"It was opening day and Doodyville Park," Mitchum repeated. Logan started to relax back into the pillows as Mitchum read. The boy was uncharacteristically still and quiet as the story went on, but Logan's face was clearly held captive by his father's words.

Five minutes later, he flipped to the last page. "For the brave little boy who helped Howdy save the day, all the rides in the park were free all summer long. The End." Mitchum concluded.

Logan yawned, his mouth opening wide and his little fist stretching up into the air. "Daddy?" he said, his eyes finally drooping with the specter of sleep. Mitchum had to admit, the kid was cute when he was like this—all quiet and innocent and looking at Mitchum like he was the greatest thing since the invention of the printing press.

"Yeah, Son?"

Logan turned over on his side to face his Dad. "I want to be a cowboy when I grow up, just like Howdy Doody. And I'm gonna marry a cowgirl and we're going to have a family and protect people from the Indians."

"You're going to be a publisher when you grow up, just like me." Logan's eyes dimmed and the corners of his lips dipped down. Mitchum immediately regretted his words; the kid was five, he didn't need to have his dreams of bull wrangling and bad guy catching dashed just yet.

"I don't want to be a pubisher," Logan huffed, turning back onto his back and away from his father. He crossed his arms over his chest. "Being a pubisher is stupid. I hate your job." Okay, so maybe the sulky face wasn't so much about not being a cowboy. How could a basic insult from a five-year-old sting so much?

"My job paid for that cowboy book and your cowboy hat and that trip to Wild West City you loved so much."

"What do you know?" Logan skulked, "You didn't even come. You never do anything fun with us. You're always too busy." Mitchum cringed. He actually was supposed to go to the park with them. It was just a day trip to Jersey, he was sure he could manage it. But then they'd gone and acquired a paper in Phoenix and Pop had insisted he go and spend a few weeks there to help with the transition. Phoenix in August was hardly his idea of a good time, but what could he do?

"I have an important job, Logan. And I know you don't understand that now, but one day you will. You have to take care of your family even if it means you don't get to spend as much time with them as you want."

Logan was still pouting, but the anger in his eyes had dimmed. "Connor's Dad has an important job and he still coaches t-ball."

"It's different."

"Why?"

"It just is. My job comes with a lot more responsibilities."

"It's not fair."

"I know," Mitchum agreed. Life wasn't fair. Mitchum had seen it with his own two eyes. He'd seen innocent men convicted. He'd seen kids shot dead in the streets of Chicago. He'd even seen genocide. But Logan would have plenty of opportunities to learn about the unfairness of the world the hard way as he grew up.

Logan's eyes once again started to flutter closed but after a few seconds he pried them back open again. "Daddy? He asked.

"Yeah, son?"

"Do pubishers at least help people?"

God, Mitchum hoped so. He hoped the atrocities he'd seen and reported on and published in his papers could be learned from. He hoped that shedding light on the cruelties of the present could change the future. He hoped this wasn't all in vain, though he secretly sometimes doubted it. The world was cruel. And people were selfish. He didn't know if that would ever change. "Yeah, son, they do," he lied.

Logan gave a drowsy nod. "Ok," he agreed. "Maybe I can be a pubisher when I grow up. But only if I get to be home to read my son a bedtime story every night." His lids finally shuttered as sleep overtook him.

Mitchum stood up off the bed and pulled the covers up under Logan's chin, tucking him in tight. He headed for the door, but stopped, just as he was about to turn off the lights and looked back at his sleeping son with a strange mixture of sadness and hope. Who knew? Maybe one day Logan really would figure out a way to be home to read his son a bedtime story every night.

December 2005

Logan folded another sweater and dropped it in the box on top of the others.

"What are Hart and Holström's two categories of moral hazard?" Colin asked from his spot sitting cross-legged on the bed as Logan pulled more clothes out of the dresser to pack away.

"Mini-skirts and pyramid schemes?" Finn answered from over by the entertainment center where he was supposed to be helping Logan pack up his CDs and DVDs but was mostly just critiquing his taste in music.

Logan rolled his eyes and ignored him. He appreciated his friend's efforts but at this point the Australian was more of a liability than an asset in getting shit done. Not that he was going to kick him out…who knew when he was going to have a chance to spend time with any of his friends again? Plus, Finn was already offended that Logan had told Colin about Rory and not him. And he had to let Colin stay since they were in the same Agents and Fiduciaries class together, the final for which was in two days. Multi-tasking was the only thing that was going to help him survive this next week. "Hidden action and hidden information," Logan answered. "Give me something difficult."

"Yeah Colin," Finn piped in. "Logan knows all about hidden information and hidden action. And speaking of hidden action…what's it's like rooting a pregnant chick, Huntz?"

"Do you even hear yourself when you speak?" Colin asked.

"Do you?" Finn huffed.

Colin turned back to the notebook in front of him, forgoing a bickering fight with Finn to focus on the task at hand. "Discuss a case of moral hazard caused by hidden action in the retail sector and how it affected both the agent and the fiduciary."

Logan sighed, dropping his head back and willing it to think of business when all it wanted to think of was Rory and Samuel and the million things he needed to do to get back to them and start their lives together. This was one of the million things he needed to do…two of them, actually; pass his finals and pack up the apartment. He just needed to get through the next week and then he'd be back in Boston holding Rory's hand as she brought their son into this world. Just one more week.

His attempts at focusing on economic theory and the law were thwarted, however, by a knock on the door. It was a stern but measured thumping that said far more about the person in the hallway than it should. Shit. He never imagined his father would show up himself to deliver the eviction notice; he figured he'd have someone else do it. Anyone else. Logan wasn't sure how he felt about this. He was simultaneously terrified and also maybe a little…hopeful? He still ranked enough in his father's life for Mitchum to take the time out of his day to show up himself. That had to mean something, right? But Logan knew better than to think that way. Mitchum was probably just here himself to rub it in Logan's face.

He looked to his friends who had both gone uncharacteristically silent, clearly able to deduce who was at the door as well as Logan could. "Welp," Colin said after an uncomfortable moment, slapping the cover of his textbook closed and shoving it and his notebook into his bag. "It's been swell, but you're on your own for this." So much for studying.

"If you don't survive," Finn said, tossing a stack of CDs haphazardly into a box and standing up, brushing imaginary dust off his pants, "I promise to send a sympathy card to your baby mamma and impending offspring."

"Some friends you are," Logan mumbled as Colin and Finn made their way to the front door of the apartment. Logan stayed where he was, standing on the slightly elevated floor of the section of loft that served as his bedroom. As soon as Colin and Finn opened the door to let themselves out, Mitchum would feel free to let himself in. And somehow this tiny bit of high ground gave him a minuscule sense of security against the man that could always make him feel as small and unworthy as a gnat.

"Hi, Mr. Huntzberger," Colin said as Logan watched him slide past the man and out the door, avoiding eye contact.

"Dark Lord." Finn gave a reverent bow as he exited. Mitchum's eyes followed him with a mixture of confusion and exasperation before shrugging his shoulders and entering the apartment, shutting the door behind him.

"Look, if you're here with my official notice of eviction, you can save it. As you can clearly see," Logan waved his hands around the loft cluttered with half-full moving boxes, "I'm working on it, and I'll be out of your hair—or what's left of it—shortly."

Mitchum ran a hand through what Logan had to admit at the moment was an annoyingly full head of hair, as he made himself comfortable leaning against the armrest of the sofa facing his son. "You really want to antagonize me while you've still got a week of finals left? Because being homeless isn't great for the cognitive processes."

"I'll make do."

"I'm sure you will," Mitchum acknowledged. "But legally I'm required to give you 12 day's notice so alas, you can relax, secure in the knowledge that you can continue mooching off me through the end of term."

"Great," Logan snarked, turning his back on this father to face the dresser and pull more clothes out of it. "So glad to know the State of Connecticut cares so much about me." Logan opened a drawer, grabbing an armful of socks and dropping them in a box. He could still sense his father's presence behind him, unmoving.

"Was there something else?" Logan finally turned around and asked? "Or did you just think you'd amuse yourself this afternoon by watching your only son remove himself from your property and your life?"

"When is she due?" Logan blinked in surprise, completely taken aback by his father's question.

"Excuse me?"

"Rory. Her due date must be right around the corner, no?" What was the man's game? Why was he fishing for information? What was he planning?

"What's it matter to you?"

"What's it matter to me when my first grandkid is going to be born?"

Logan scoffed. "You really expect me to believe you care?"

"You think I don't?" Mitchum asked, pushing himself up off the armrest and taking a few steps closer. "You think…what? That I'm some evil archvillain? Some Mr. Burns sitting in Burns manor cooking up ways to ruin lives and get richer at the expense of anyone who gets in my way? At the expense of my own son?"

Logan shrugged. "You said it."

If he didn't know better, Logan would think the look that crossed his father's face at that moment was sadness; the downward gaze, the furrowed brow, the sinking pull of his mouth. But Logan did know better. Mitchum didn't feel sad…he'd need a heart for that particular emotion. "I'm sorry you feel that way." Mitchum said.

"It's not how I feel, it's how it is." Logan crossed his arms over his chest.

"Look, I don't claim to be perfect…" His shoulders were back now, his eyes making contact with Logan's again. The brief moment of vulnerability…if that's even what it was, was gone.

"Not perfect? You're an asshole Dad."

"Yeah, well, I guess you had to pick it up from somewhere."

Logan's eyes narrowed angrily. "I'm not you," he hissed out. "I'm never going to be you. I'm never going to be the guy who treats my son like an employee. I'm never going to be the guy who gets to know people just to exploit their weaknesses. And I'm sure as hell not going to be the guy who storms his way into a hospital to make a scene and disparage his son's unborn child and the woman he loves."

Mitchum replied with a sardonic chuckle. "You think you're some victim in all of this? Think again, kid. You got a girl pregnant, then hid it from everyone while secretly making plans to run away with her. I was pissed. I think I had a right to be. But I'll admit…" Mitchum's posture relaxed backwards, "I overreacted." Logan blinked in surprise. He was pretty sure that was the closest to an apology that he'd ever heard from his father…to anybody. He felt a choking sensation in his chest that he forced down. It didn't matter. It didn't change a thing.

"I did what I had to do."

"You didn't have to anything, Logan. You made choices."

"You know what? I did. I made choices. I made choices for myself. Something I never would have been allowed to do if I told you what was going on. Something I've never been allowed to do period. At least not choices that mattered."

Mitchum appraised him carefully, a look that Logan couldn't quite read. Was it anger? Frustration? Resignation? Indifference?

"And you're happy with your choices?"

"I am."

Mitchum pursed his lips together, nodding solemnly. "So if I told you I had a job for you…in New York, not London?"

"Rory's in Boston."

"And there's something dire keeping her there?"

He wasn't sure what his father was playing at, but he wasn't going to play along. He shrugged non-commitally. "Not really." Her father was there but despite everything Christopher had done for her over the past week, Logan doubted Rory would feel any strong desire to have to remain in the same city as him. And her minimum wage bookstore job was hardly irreplaceable. Jo was around, but she'd be graduating eventually. Not that any of that mattered to Mitchum.

"You weren't expected in London until May, and we'd need time to rearrange things, so there would be time for paternity leave…paternity leave before you even officially start. And your accommodations would be taken care of…accommodations more than sufficient for you, Rory, and Samuel."

Logan stared at his father in disbelief. Was he serious with this? Was it pity? Was Mitchum desperate…maybe the board was coming down on him? Or could it be that he actually cared? That he wanted Logan to stay in the fold? That he wanted to work with him. Probably not, despite the strange swell of hope that Logan felt in his chest.

Whatever it was, Colin would tell him to jump at the opportunity. Maybe he should consider it; he had a kid to take care of now, he needed to do the responsible thing. And maybe he'd have the chance to actually prove himself to his father.

"No." The word manifested from his mouth unbidden despite the thoughts going through his head. No; he couldn't take the easy way out. No; he couldn't back out of the commitments he had made. No; he couldn't go back to a life he hated just to make money. No; he couldn't risk not being present for his son.

"No," Mitchum repeated, his head nodding as he took in the word. He scratched at his jaw. "You seem pretty certain about that."

"I am. I'm sorry, but I have to do this my way. I have people counting on me." Not just Rory and Samuel, but Jason, Kyle and Mark too.

Mitchum continued to keep his face stoic, but this time Logan did see something there. A glimmer of something that looked almost like…pride, despite the fact that Logan had just turned him down flat; maybe because of it. "Well then," Mitchum said. "I guess I'll see myself out. You need to get back to packing." He waved a flippant hand at the boxes all over the floor.

"Yeah," Logan nodded, "I do."

"There's just one more thing before I go."

A sickening feeling started to creep its way up Logan's stomach. Here came the twist. The gotcha moment. Whatever sick ace up the sleeve Mitchum had saved to pull the rug out from under him. He should have known his father hadn't come here on a peace-making mission. He should have known he wouldn't let him go that easily. Mitchum opened up his briefcase and reached inside. What was it going to be? Some binding contract he'd tricked him into signing years ago? A lawsuit? Something to blackmail him with?

Logan's angst was replaced by confusion as Mitchum's hand withdrew a well-worn, teal blue book with a gold and black binding and handed it over. A freckled redheaded boy in an airplane looked up at him from the cover, a roller-coaster and merry-go-round in the background. Howdy Doody in Funland the title read.

"It was your favorite as a kid. You used to make me read it to you over and over again."

"I remember," Logan choked out. He was just shocked his father did.

"You were obsessed with all things cowboy. You wanted to protect people from the Indians." Logan cringed a little. He tried to remind himself that he was only a kid at the time. It wasn't his fault he hadn't learned about smallpox blankets and The Trail of Tears yet.

"They go by Native Americans now."

"Right well, I don't think there were any in this particular book anyway, so it probably won't get flagged by the PC police. I thought you might like to read it to Samuel." Logan didn't know what to say. An uncomfortable tightening feeling clenched at his chest, burning his throat and the back of his eyes.

Mitchum turned to leave. He was halfway to the door before Logan could make any more words form. "Dad!" Mitchum stopped, turning back to face his son. "Friday," Logan said.

"What?"

"When your first grandkid is going to be born. They're inducing her so unless something unexpected happens in the next six days, Friday you become a grandpa."

Mitchum seemed to straighten up. "Well," he said, his chest puffing out, "how 'bout that."