Notes: So... here we are. Hi? I've got no excuses for this abandonment, guys, except to say that my life for the last few years has consisted of nothing but dueling school & work schedules and has left barely 0.5 % time for things like fanfic, and I've been writing an actual novel as well for a long time so pretty much all that 0.5 % went to that. I'm not in school any longer so we're not pulling double duty, so I figured I'd use the change to write a little fanfic. Plus I spent a couple depressed hours the other day binging R&L fanvids, so... I'm not making promises anymore on this story or any other, so please take this resuming with a grain of salt, but I genuinely do love this story and I want badly to see it to completion.
I know there were a lot of people hoping I'd come back to this, so I hope some of you still get this email and drudge back to see what's going on. ;)
On the chapter, couple things: This one is a doozy, my friends. No fluff found here, not in this one at least. Seriously, get ready, buckle up and steel yourselves, cause surprises abound!
Second, more serious thing: This chapter, while not in an explicit depiction, does give reference and conversation to drug abuse. If that's something that's personally going to trigger you, please feel free to skip the first flashback scene of this chapter. Rest assured it is not a huge throughline in this story, and while this is not the last time it will be referenced, the first scene in this chapter is really the only occurrence where it is spoken on at length and you will not miss that much by skipping it.
Thank you so much in advance for anyone who was still waiting for this story, you guys mean a lot and I appreciate the love for it, you have no idea.
(Four – Logan)
June 29th, 1999
No matter how many exuberant accolades he got for his academic achievements, no matter how often he had grown men far older than he gape as he swept all their money at a poker table, no matter how often his English teacher would tell him her lessons were wasted on him – despite all of this, Logan Hayden was just a kid. A small, terrified fifteen-year-old boy whose best friend lied to him about his drug addiction.
"It's not as bad as it looks," Colin assured him hurriedly, haphazardly shoving several containers of prescription pills into his backpack, lithe fingers so jittery and dumpling that the lack of characteristic and brash self–assurance gave Logan such a cold chill he actually shivered, the turn of July heat altogether forgotten. Still detached and speechless, Logan watched on as Colin scrambled to pick himself up off the bridge above the ironically peaceful and innocent beauty of Logan's favorite fishing lake.
"I was, well – y'know, I told you before, cutting myself off, one time deal, Mom pissed me off, you know how she is – " Logan's sporadic breathing was still shallow and quick, chest tight and comprehension non-existent. The taste in his throat was so sour and sharp that he choked on the very first syllable he tried to utter.
"W-why?"
It was a pointless, unanswerable question, he well knew, and not one that would prompt any helpful response, but it was the only word he felt capable of speaking. He didn't think his hoarse throat, slick and painful with salty disbelief, would survive attempting a second one.
"I told you," Colin says dismissively, irritation and jitters buzzing through every bone in his body. Logan looked away sharply, staring at his reflection in the lake, wondering when – hoping for – the sea monster to attack and inevitably prove this to be a Red Bull and stale nachos-fueled nightmare.
"Mom's being a – "
The vitriol flowed from his mouth without permission, sour and ugly and wholly unhelpful, regret settling deep in his stomach, twisted and nauseous, before he'd even finished – "Do you hate her that much? Do you hate yourself that much?"
Colin's gaze is so empty and bitter that Logan actually steps back in fear as Colin spits his question with acidic reproach – "Which her?" The question is so startling, such a departure from the flow of Logan's thoughts that this answer comes out more timid than he thought himself capable.
"Your Mom?" He supplies, quiet, hesitant and utterly confused. He isn't sure why he voices this like a question – logically, there didn't seem to be another her that fit.
Colin tries to brush past him now, a fight or flight response clearly tipped in one direction, but Logan snaps out of his detachment, so harshly that spots decorate the sides of his vision, and he blocks his retreat with an urgency that scares him.
"Sit," he says, and the order is so forceful and certain that it startles them both. When Colin hesitates, his glance torn between Logan's concerned and enraged features and the road behind him leading nowhere but denial and a false idea of safety, Logan pushes, "Sit the fuck down, I swear to god."
"Man, you can't – "
"Tell me why," Logan reiterates, not budging an inch, physically or otherwise, his eyes glinting with something far too icy and far too old for a boy of his age, a sense of certainty, desperation and resolution that can only come from sheer, absolute panic.
"Tell me what's driving this, make me understand. Because the 'she' is not your Mom, and if you want me to be here through this with you, you owe me the truth."
"I don't owe you shit," Colin says, and he reels back from the tone, not one of anger or dismissal or genuine hatred, but with an exhausted, resigned pain that horrifies Logan more than any genuine anger ever could. It's a detached, hollow desperation, a last plea to leave him in the emptiness of self - destruction, and it chills Logan to the bone.
"You're pushing me away," Logan says softly, gently, as though he's speaking to a spooked animal – "I'm not gonna let you."
"I'm not giving you a choice," Colin tells him, tries to bump past his shoulder again, but it's half-hearted, unwilling to really hurt Logan in his attempts to get away.
"Neither am I," he counters, resolute and stubborn as ever, his coping mechanism of absolute confidence in his belief the only armor he can scrounge up in such a state. "I'm serious, Col, neither of us are leaving this fucking bridge until I understand what's going on. You want to run after that, be my damn guest. But I'm not going to watch you shrivel and die out here, alone, without me. It just won't happen."
Colin lets out a deep sigh, sits back down, his eyes glossy and posture defeated – "You know I used to live in Hartford, right? Fake, rich prats with Porsches, a whole glittery world of extravagance and emptiness." Colin laughs abruptly, a throaty chuckle, but with so much derision it almost seems tangible, infectious, like the disdain will seep into Logan's skin. "There was a girl." Here, Colin stops. Looks out at the harbor light in the distance, a frown of contemplation on his face. Appropriate, Logan thinks, that they're having this conversation here, about a girl and empty riches, that he'd be staring at a harbor light across the water as he steels himself to tell a clearly horrific story of a girl who likely wronged him. The light isn't green, it's blue, he knows without even looking, as Logan has spent his fair share of time meditating here as well, but it's amusing all the same. In a sharp, tactless, morbid kind of way. Jay and Daisy, a tragedy on the water, on the Long Island Sound, glittery, extravagant and utterly empty.
"She was definitely my Daisy," he says with a far - away voice, as though he's not entirely speaking to Logan, although clearly coming to the same thought process, his lips wry and amused, but it's anything but light – "Enchanting and bewitching, but just as callous and heartless in the end." Logan stays completely still, afraid to break Colin's musings for fear he'd never speak on them again, "I wasn't a poor pauper, though, not then – " he says with a shoddy, half - hearted attempt at a wicked grin, but it's thin as paper, just this side of wistful. "Guess I'm a reverse Gatsby, in a way."
"We grew up together, were each other's firsts in everything," Colin continues, his voice morose and thick – "And she was the reason for all of it. Sold us out. A snake in the grass, waiting to strike – learned too much from that bastard father of hers, I guess."
"About your Dad?" Logan prods when there's one beat too many of silence, so gently he couldn't have heard it if the quiet, dark lake wasn't a complete void of sound.
"Mhm," Colin says, still in some far away remembrance Logan can't touch, "It's my fault – I brought her into our lives, I told her truth, even knowing how much it would benefit her family to screw us over, I trusted her."
His fists ball at his sides, the first indication of true white-hot anger instead of detached resignment. "And she fucked us – ruined us." After another beat of horrible silence, only crickets in the air pounding loud enough in Logan's head for the onset of a migraine, Colin says quietly, even bashfully – "I don't hate my Mom. I love her too much, maybe. And her life is hell because of me." He holds up his backpack, lips twisted into a scowl – "It's not an easy thing to explain, but – when I'm home, when I have to sit in that small ass trailer kitchen, to watch her cook a box of $.99 cent mac and cheese for both of us and smile and pretend it's not pathetic, these make it easier. Easier to look at her, I guess."
"Colin – " Logan says, his voice so thick and eyes so watery he has trouble seeing straight. "I hate her, Logan. I hate her so much sometimes I can't think straight."
"This is what she'd have wanted, Colin. This is what they were trying to do, what they wanted to happen – don't give it to them. They wanted to destroy you, and they didn't because you're one resilient fucker and you know it. Don't destroy yourself for them."
The hiss of a word under his breath startles Logan, a name he knows, a name he's revered for so many years – "Huntzberger," he spits like acid, so low but equally fierce, more like a demon's curse than a swear word. And another name, spoken with absolute hatred but there's a softness there too, a love that he can't quite swallow down: "Rory." When Colin finally looks to him and sees his flabbergasted face, he grins, all teeth and no levity - "Yeah, I knew you'd recognize it – Mr. 'Three Different Newspapers Over Breakfast', eh?"
Logan's face pales, he can't quite hear Colin, his blood pumping steadily in his ears, this revelation sick and awful and incomprehensible – "The Huntz –"
Colin cuts him off sharply, "I want your help. You're my best friend Logan, of course I do. I know I've got to do something and I will. But I need you, need your support."
"You've got it," Logan says determinedly, for the moment the last name of his one-time idol is pushed to the background. "You've always got it."
Colin fidgets now, his face turned back towards the light, the reflection from the water casting harsh shadows, "But I never want to hear that name again. I never want to talk about them again, you hear me?" Logan's erratic heart beats in the wrong place, his throat tight and sour, his knowledge that this isn't healthy, that he shouldn't agree to this, that he wants to find that fucking girl and maim her limb from limb, that he wants to set his morning newspapers on fire tomorrow morning, every strand of overwhelming thought he has telling him in bright neon letters not to agree to this, but he just nods, tense and worried.
"Okay."
December 17th, 2003
The bitter, winter chill against his skin was usually something he quite enjoyed – the sharp sting of winter was something he cherished, but the foreboding feeling in his gut as he stood outside his Hayden Grandparent's home – castle, really – erased any enjoyment he might've usually gleaned from it. He reluctantly knocked, eager to subdue this feeling and prove it unreliable, but as the maid took his coat and steered him to the parlor, he knew with horrifying clarity that his intuition was still as keen as always.
Because Mitchum Huntzberger was sitting on his grandparent's couch, and the stunningly beautiful girl next to him was certainly not a stranger.
He just stared for a moment, slack-jawed, silent and taken aback by how ruthlessly underprepared his grandparents had seen fit to leave him. He watched her, scrutinizing, and noted easily that she was in full Huntzberger mode: Self - absorbed, wickedly charming Society Queen with a superiority complex and a dangerous smile sharp enough to cut glass. He hated that she was so incredibly good at it.
Suddenly, a boisterous "Logan!" floated to him, his grandfather's austere, commanding voice startling him into action. When Rory raised her eyes to meet his, he could see her iron-will Huntzberger composure shatter for a moment at the look in his eyes, and the end of whatever undoubtedly charming story she'd been telling faded off with a quiet, choked stutter.
His grandmother rose to greet him, as she always did, absurdly formal and with way too much fanfare and a kiss on both cheeks – "Logan, darling, what would you like to drink?" He graciously accepted a simple club soda, no need for some egregiously fancy liquor that they no doubt had stacked to the gills.
"Now boy," his grandfather clapped him on the shoulder as he sat down, "You surely know who our guest is tonight, I'd imagine." He gave a short, fake laugh and declared that, "I meant to introduce you ages ago, knowing how much you idolized him as a young kid."
Rory, who was in the middle of a graceful sip of vodka tonic and who hadn't given the remotest indication yet that she was interested in his presence – let alone that she knew him, which he had to say, he was grateful for her discretion – promptly coughed in surprise, a surprise that was only exacerbated when Logan gave a hard, clearly visible flinch.
Mitchum, who was assured, confident and intimidating in his best benevolent persona, the charming gentleman bewitching the society set with his intelligence and command, merely waved it off with a deep laugh. Almost genuine, Logan noted as he found himself damn near fooled, and it set his teeth on edge. "Now son, there's nothing wrong with being a fan of something, I myself had a whole host of journalistic idols in my youth." The corners of his mouth grew tight here, and while his charm never quite tapered off, Logan could clearly see the disdain in his eyes as they briefly flitted to his daughter – "Not having something to strive for is a worse sin, in my book, wouldn't you say?"
"Here, here," his grandfather interjected moronically, simperingly, as if Mitchum was a deity to flail before in reverence. "This man knows his stuff, Logan, you could learn more than a trick or two from him."
"As I understand it," Mitchum said, diplomatically giving Logan a warm smile, altogether ignoring his daughter's low scoff and her quiet but palpable disdain – "Logan here has learned quite a few tricks himself, if the quality of his publication is an indication of his talent, which I'm willing to bet it quite is." His gaze on Logan was penetrating now, as though Logan was a sweaty, nervous interviewee for a position he neither applied to nor wanted.
He glanced over at Rory, for reasons he did not entirely understand, but perhaps for some semblance of guidance on how to proceed with this intimidating presence he was wholly unprepared for. Her eyes were wide with genuine shock at the mention of his magazine, so at the very least, he could count her out of the organization of whatever ominous scheme he was currently facing.
It made his skin itch that her lack of participation settled his nerves a bit.
"You've read some of Syntax's articles, sir?" Logan asks, instinctively deferential in a manner that gave him hives, a part of him that is still very much that ambitious, determined, excited ten-year-old positively giddy that Mitchum Huntzberger deigned it worth his time to read a single letter Logan had printed on a page.
"More than a couple, as I've heard it," his grandmother interjected, pride rippling from her in overwhelming, deeply concerning waves.
Nothing good could come from this, he thought, as he glanced around at three beaming faces, feeling like he'd somehow stumbled into The Stepford Wives, racing thoughts of assimilation and hiveminds flittering through his stunned brain. He watched Rory trying to follow the thread of this baffling conversation as well and knew she found herself on the same stunningly confusing wavelength.
"You've got a good arsenal of talent, my boy, you just aren't using it as you should –" Mitchum said, somehow making the backhanded compliment come across more like a rave appraisal of his abilities rather than a critical judgment. "Rather like someone else I know," Mitchum gave a quick chuckle, nonchalant, as though he was lightly teasing his daughter for her lack of apparent ambition rather than hitting her with the scathing critique it undoubtedly was.
His grandmother, ever ignorant to tension when it suited her agenda, said instead, "Logan, you must've run into Rory a few times, I'd imagine? Yale is a big campus, of course, but I'd be surprised if you'd never crossed paths."
Rory leveled her gaze at Logan for the first time tonight, that whip - smart charming smile making his insides squirm. He thought he had a good idea of the distinctive lines between the Huntzberger persona and the actual girl behind it, but he was starting to realize it was blurrier than he'd anticipated.
"I've heard of you in passing, of course. Mostly about the magazine, naturally, so only good things," Rory finally said, that diplomatic, society girl smile charming his grandparents silly.
"Well, that's wonderful, of course, as you two will be – "
"Mrs. Hayden, dinner has been served," a maid behind Logan's shoulder announced, and he jumped a bit in fright, as her footsteps had been so light she could've been floating for all he knew.
"Lovely, thank you Mirabella." Francine guided them through the narrow, well-decorated halls with the vigor of a well-practiced hostess, and as she was gabbing away to a clearly uninterested Mitchum, Logan took the opportunity to pull Rory back.
"What the hell is going on here?" He asked her, face flushed, as if he didn't quite know what to make of her appearance in his grandparent's house – which, in fairness, he really, really didn't.
She shrugged, an impish smirk on her lips – "Honestly? Beats me. I'm just as ridiculously clueless here as you are, although I certainly hope my face isn't quite so dopey," she proffered with a hearty, genuine laugh.
He gave her a withering glare that told none too subtlety what he thought of her wry, unsolicited commentary. "Your father is talking about having read my magazine," he said forcefully, letting his horror at this situation come clear to the forefront. "What the fuck does that mean? And why are my grandparents in on it? Do you think he knows – about you..." He lowered his voice, clear hesitance seeping through – "About Renee?"
"I don't fucking know," she said again, clearly agitated as well, though seemingly with the situation moreso than with him. "And we're never going to if we stand here all night."
He gave a begrudging concession in that, but couldn't help but ask: "Why didn't you warn me what I was walking into?"
"I did!" She exclaimed adamantly. "You didn't get it? Check your damn phone before spewing accusations, Hayden."
As he plucked his phone from his pocket, he did indeed see the text attached with her name – Renee, of course, not Rory, as a security measure they had agreed was probably unnecessary but smart all the same – that read, clear and surprisingly helpful: 'My father has been invited to your grandparents tonight and I've been roped along. Don't know what the game is, but he's practically giddy, so I know there is one. Wasn't sure if your grandparents told you, so I wanted to give you a heads up. Be on guard, I don't know what he's up to.'
He gave only a labored, irritated scoff. "Fuck."
She laughed, wry but genuinely mirthful, and it sent something hot, bold and unnerving down his spine; "My sentiments exactly."
He began to walk again in the direction of the dining room, a huff in his voice when she stayed rooted to the spot, that grin still firmly in place.
"You coming anytime tonight?"
She just grinned wider. "That you idolized as a kid?" She repeated his grandfather's words, the sharp grin fading somewhat into a genuinely perplexed expression. "You?"
He groaned and waved her off, pressing his thumb and middle finger between his eyes. "Rory, can we not do this? Not now, at least." He looked towards her as he dropped his hand, expecting to see her ever-present impish, overly confident smirk but instead seeing nothing but a mystifying smile that actually resembled empathy.
"Okay," she agreed, concise, blunt and honest, and it threw him for several loops. Then the impish grin made a slow, sharp return and she began walking past him, "But you're not getting out of explaining it later."
He grit his teeth at his inability to stop himself from watching the sway of her hips walking away and followed after her with a nervous grimace at what awaited him in the far too ostentatious dining room.
Polite, monotonous, and utterly uninspiring chatter followed for a good ten minutes or so after the first course was served, and only once it evolved from pleasantries to Strobe and Mitchum's business ventures did Mitchum put down his fork and direct his attention squarely to Logan. "Now, Logan," he said smoothly, and the twitch in Rory's lips was so utterly contemptuous that Logan had to suppress a little smile, "I can't say I've ever been a man unwilling to cut to the point, so I'll get right to it without jerking you around too much: I've spoken with your grandfather at length about your talents, and I'd like to offer you a proposition of funding, the backing of your magazine as a business venture."
Logan's spoon dropped directly into his cauliflower soup, and, grateful that everyone was too busy staring at Mitchum in excitement – or, in Rory's case, absolute shock - to notice, Logan continued to gape at the elder Huntzberger. When Logan didn't immediately respond, Mitchum continued, "Well, boy, I can't have taken you for quite that much of a shock, can I? You don't strike me as the bashful type, you know you're a damn good writer. And only a young man with the makings of a true success could garner the amount of buzz you have with an independent college-run magazine, I'd wager."
The blade of his sharp grin was now so polished and bright it could cut straight through iron. He raised an intimidating eyebrow - "You disagree?"
"No, of course – " Logan tried to gather his wits and understand what was happening, purposefully ignoring Rory's eye – "I'm honored that you'd even consider it, to be frank. I'm not sure what I've done to garner that respect from you, sir, but – "
"This is an opportunity, Mr. Hayden – " Mitchum said now, much more forcefully, an admonishment in his tone – "The kind that comes along once in a lifetime. Bashfulness is no way to cultivate ambition, son. And a boy like you, you certainly won't convince me that you're not absolutely brimming with it." His eyes narrowed in on Logan's greatest dreams, exploited his wants and desires, poked at his most vulnerable insecurities and the temptation of his smooth offerings mixed with Logan's absolute shock culminated in an inability to brush him off, in a complete bewilderment undercut with a much darker, much more visceral sensation of sheer ambitious hunger.
In that moment, he hated every square inch of this man's alluring confidence, and wanted nothing more than to scream obscenities at him. But, of course, he did nothing of the kind, and simply sat as Mitchum stood from the table, grin once again wide and affable, charm on full display, as he said, in a tone that brokered not a hint of rebuttal, "I must be off now, but Logan, come to my office on Friday morning, 9 a.m. We'll hammer out some of these details and the conditions of the terms, namely -" he broke off, a quick but meaningful glance at his horrified daughter - "the addition of my daughter to your staff."
He was left completely breathless as Mitchum came to stand over him, imposing and all-encompassing as though he was sucking Logan's free will straight from his soul like a vacuum – "That's a boy," he then declares with ominous finality, clapping him on the shoulder, all broad gregariousness and brash, confident charm. "We'll make a star out of you yet, you hear?"
He gulps, his mind swirling with equal bouts of horror, opportunity, joy and pure, liquid fear. He spies his grandmother in the corner of his vision, her hand on her heart, tears in her eyes, and pride in every crevice of her always immaculate posture.
And then he finally allows himself to look at Rory, sitting gobsmacked across from him. She's pale, paler than he's ever seen her, true thunderstruck shock in her eyes, moisture blurring the edges of her vision, the beginnings of wet, angry tears providing a stark 180 contrast from his grandmother's proud ones, and he's never seen - never even imagined - that her usually apathetic features could reflect that much absolute terror.
And he's never hated himself more in all his life than when all he's able to say is, "Course, sir."
He trudges back to his small, cramped little office, having fled the dinner without much tact after Mitchum had departed, his grandparents stunned by the behavior, and Rory Huntzberger's blazing blue eyes following his every move, something like befuddlement in the droop of her shoulders, but her eyes, in contrast, had held nothing but pure, unadulterated fury.
He drops his head in his hands, an uncharacteristic feeling of depression and self-hatred swirling in his mind, his once solid and sturdy, reliable desk feeling more akin to the fragile, thin line of an acrobat rope. He lets his shoulders shake with the poignant fear of uncertainty, if just to let a seep of emotion out so the tidal wave doesn't completely drown him. He glances at the clock, a sigh of defeated displeasure the only sound echoing in the dark room, and picks himself up with great reluctance. He knows where he needs to be now, as much as the anticipation of the awful conversation fills his empty stomach with a heavy pile of lead.
When he gets to Marty's dorm with nothing but one quick, terse knock – he never waited for Marty to open the door, and neither did Marty at his, they were far too comfortable with each other for hesitance – and the sight that greeted him was the very last thing he expected. Stephanie Vanderbilt, of the vapid society set he'd just literally fled in panic, was taking up residence between one of his closest friend's thighs, straddling him with a beautiful, genuine and utterly haunting smile, a tender blush of pink on her cheeks. And goddamn was Marty looking at her with the reverence one would ascribe a Mythic Goddess.
What the flying fuck was this day?
Stephanie startled first, a shout of surprise piercing the air, but she gathered herself rather admirably for the situation, shrugging her blouse back on and giving hasty, soothing reassurances to Marty as she avoided Logan's eye in her retreat.
"What the fuck?" was all Logan could supply in the moment, a hysterical laugh bubbling in his throat, the absurdity of the last six hours or so finally catching up to him, his head spinning with the day's unexpected crescendo.
"It's – " Marty sighed, getting off the couch, his eyes downcast and speech stuttered – "She's in my Classics course." It was a hilariously flimsy excuse and Logan barked out a laugh.
"Didn't exactly look like a lively debate about Petrarch from here, my friend," Logan dismisses, Marty's face hot with embarrassment and indignation.
Marty took a glass of Orange Soda from the mini-fridge and settled back on the couch, running a sweaty, shaking hand through his mussed hair and regarding Logan with suspicion – "What are you doing here anyway man?"
Logan paused in his teasing, the reality of the conversation he was about to have sneaking up on him, his blood steadily jumping in his ears, every nervous tick in his body jonesing for a Red Bull. His voice was so quiet it barely came out as English, "Mitchum Huntzberger wants to back the magazine – wants to invest."
Marty let out a dangerous laugh, a sharp knife of incredulity that pierced through Logan's stomach like a slice – "Yeah, okay, nice time to start up your comedy routine," he rolled his eyes, "What are you really doing here?"
Logan's eyes never strayed from Marty's, his pride refusing to let him back down, even as the guilt and shame were so overwhelming he thought he might trip on thin air. "Not comedy," was all he said in response.
Marty's eyes widened, and he literally sputtered as he attempted to speak. "Huntzberger? Logan, come on, in what universe is that not a joke? What the hell did you say, how did he take the rejection? Are we gonna get a hit put on us or something? Fucking Christ, Logan, he could blacklist any future connections from here to Asia!" Marty stood now, fire in his eyes, seemingly having moved past his embarrassment into a ferocity so uncharacteristic it made Logan's whole body flinch.
He kept his voice almost comically steady given the insane words he never thought he'd be saying – "I didn't reject it."
"You what?!" Marty was beet red now, pacing his small dorm like a caged animal, "Mitchum Huntzberger wants to come in here with a sledgehammer and absorb our fucking life's work, and you told him what, exactly?" His face was a mocking sneer, an arrow to Logan's already unsteady heart – "Sounds swell, come on down, Tuesday is good!"
"Fuck you, Marty, it's not like I had a lot of time to think! My grandparents sprung this shit on me like a hand grenade, alright?!" He took a moment to calm his labored breathing, and said quieter, "But it's not without advantages, is it?" The words he was about to say were so bitter and horrifying that they tasted like rubbing alcohol, but it didn't stop him from saying them – "$100,000, Marty. Can you fucking imagine? And legitimacy beyond our wildest dreams, do you know where that could take us? What doors that can open? How can you possibly not see that?"
Marty stared at him, unblinking, horror in the creases of his brow. "Who the hell are you?"
Logan was so enraged he could barely see straight - "That's rich, I just walked in on you fucking a Vanderbilt for Christ's sake! Back at you, buddy!" His chest was heaving with the impossibility of this moment, with the horrifying words he couldn't stop himself from saying, an awful, twisted, scared-out-of-his-wits fearful little boy lashing out in pure, hideous panic. "You going to ask her Daddy for a little sprinkle of nepotism?"
Logan's eyes widened in disbelief as soon as the words left his lips. Immediately, his tone softened, a spark of reality hit, and he backpedaled hard. "Marty, I'm –"
"Get out."
His words came slow, his thoughts jumbled – "What?"
Marty walked to him, straightened to his full height, the clear two inches on Logan never clearer than in this moment – "You want to do business with a fucking Huntzberger? You want to sell your soul for blind ambition? Stomp all over the integrity of what we made for a little more glory and profit in your pocket?"
There were tears in his eyes, cold and painful as he pushed Logan back towards the door – "Be. My. Guest."
His lips were a gut-wrenching snarl as he slammed the door in Logan's face – "Enjoy your corner office, Mr. Hayden."
Still reeling from his encounter with Marty, over half his body still completely numb in disbelief, when Colin came barging into his dorm room, he didn't at first so much as look up.
"The fucking bitch," he shouted abruptly, "I can't believe – "
In an instant, every shred of self-hatred, overwhelmed confusion and misery evaporated from Logan at the sound of his best friend hyperventilating, crossing back and forth in the tell-tale signs of an oncoming panic attack. Logan hurried over to him, terrified, and put his hand on Colin's shoulders to ground him with touch. "Hey, hey – look at me. Look at me."
Colin focused his blurry vision, staring at Logan with a vacant expression he hadn't seen in years – one that used to haunt his dreams more nights than not. "Focus on my touch, focus on my voice." He steered him over to the bed, sitting him down and giving him the quilt to wring through his hands.
After a few tense minutes of silence, Colin started up again – "She came to my dorm."
Logan's breath stilled, not needing to ask, but waiting for an explanation, his hand still steady on Colin's shoulder.
"Thought I could handle it," he muttered, "Y'know, I was okay with talking about her. Seeing her, though –" his fingers rung through the quilt more nervously. "She looks so different," he mused, his gaze that far-away glazed over shade of remembrance that gave Logan goosebumps. "She told me things, crazy fucking things – lies, obviously. Why would she do that? Hasn't she done enough?" There was a choke in his voice, the tears spilling now but with more anger than sadness – "Told me some cocked-up story about how she didn't sell us out, how she wasn't the one who recorded it, how she could never figure out how it happened but so damn insistent it wasn't her. Told me she was going through things and needed to make it right with me, no matter what – she was going through things, can you imagine? – and cried on my fucking couch, Logan! I thought I was having a coma dream!"
He laughed on a watery cough – "Then, then – listen to this shit, she told me she spent a year – more than a year – going 'round almost every weekend to every small town in Connecticut - based on some random rumor she'd heard of where we were, no less - to try to find us. To try to explain, to try to fix it. Said she was in Cheshire, said she talked to people about me, said I wasn't there." His voice got frighteningly quiet, looking remarkably like a naive, dumbstruck five - year old boy who just learned that people could lie to each other.
"Why would she do this? Why would she say this? How could someone be like this?"
Logan's breath caught, a revelation lodged in the back of his mind that he wanted to ignore, that he needed to ignore, the whisper of a memory dragging him down, the image of a cute, charming brunette with a well-worn, too baggy Bangles t-shirt and a red bandana. If that was true…
Now wasn't the time, he couldn't do this to him, he shouldn't do this –
But he couldn't stop his lips from the horrified whisper of, "Ace."
Colin stopped cold. "Ace?" He echoed back, a hollow, blank question. His eyebrows furrowed in confusion – "That girl … you told me about this, way back. Few months before we met, some girl you didn't know, she couldn't find her friend, you played some stupid game where you made up names for each other, you took her to a fair to cheer her up."
"Colin – "
"Who was she?"
"Colin, please, this isn't how we sh – "
"What. Happened?" He reiterated, his voice a frantic pitch, pushing in desperation for any ounce of clarity.
Logan's brain was spinning, this wasn't true, it couldn't be, he wouldn't let it be – "I don't know, I don't know – " he repeated, but he did. He remembered the sight of Rory Huntzberger in her cute, tatty movie night getup, couldn't expel the vivid picture from his mind, the familiarity of that moment, the way her shy grin pulled at his memory like he was missing something, the way he shook it off as just needing to swallow his disgusting, vile attraction to a pretty girl he hated –
"It was her, wasn't it?" Colin asked quietly, hesitantly. "The girl … Rory… Your Ace." He wasn't looking for confirmation anymore. He laughed, high and tight and brittle. "She was … telling the truth?" He looked so out of depth, so childlike and confused, the question seeming to rock his very foundation.
Logan leaned back in his computer chair, breathless, and managed only a whisper of "Holy shit."
Notes: So guess what friends, let's get in that Tardis cause we're going to 1997 all next chapter to drown in some Rogan goodness, so let's strap in! (Appropriate, since there'll be rollercoasters. And a good deal of genuine fluff to combat the intensity of this chapter, if that sounds good to you.)
I'd love to get your reactions to this chapter, as I know it went in a lot of directions I doubt anyone was anticipating. All the same, much love to you all and thanks for sticking with me. 3