Logan had never been seduced by Mitchum Huntzberger. Obviously. But even in the less literal connotation, even as his son, Mitchum had never really tried to get Logan on his side; to pit him against his mother in the divorce; to convince him he cared for him. Mitchum had never even pretended to be a doting father, except when other people were around that he needed to persuade.

But still, there was so much of this letter he could relate to: the subtle way he made it all about him while trying to sound sympathetic; the way he made her question her own reality; the way he made her feel like she wasn't good enough and was lucky just to be associated with him.

Logan could see now, the way he wove fear and obligation in with the veneer of compassion. The way he made it seem like his "tough love" was him just wanting the best for you when what he really wanted was an appealing prop to make him look better. And that's what the people in his life were—props.

Mitchum Huntzberger was a master manipulator, whether he was manipulating you into growing up into some corporate automaton with a career you didn't actually want, or he was manipulating you into a relationship. He and Rory had both been victimized by Mitchum, but neither of them was a victim; not anymore.

With the pages of the letter still laid out before him, he pulled open the drawer of his desk and rooted around for the burner phone he had stashed in there. He pulled it out, and with a steadying breath, he dialed. The phone rang several times and just as he was about to give in and hang up, she answered.

"Hello?" Her voice sounded gravelly and unfocused. He glanced at the clock that hung above the desk in Honor's spare room. It was after 11 already. When had it gotten so late?

"Sorry," he cringed. "Did I wake you?"

"Logan?"

"Yeah," he acknowledged.

"No, I, umm…I don't think so. I…" She certainly sounded like she'd been asleep. "I couldn't sleep, I was watching TV. Umm…" she paused as though trying to figure out where she was and what had happened. "Maybe I did doze off. Last thing I remember was Miss Jay and his giant bow criticizing Allison for wearing the same dress she wore to a previous panel."

"What?"

"I didn't get to see who got eliminated. I bet it was Tahlia. She didn't have the confidence or the right energy."

"Huh?" he questioned again. She was not making any sense.

"Nevermind." He could almost envision her shaking her head.

"Right, umm, sorry I woke you."

"It's alright," she assured him, finally sounding fully awake. "If you hadn't, Paris would have when she got home from the library. And her wakeup call would have been accompanied by a ten-thousand-word lecture on how much electricity falling asleep in front of the TV wastes and the perils of global warming in a fossil-fuel-based economy. Also—on the societal impacts of the misogynistic trash that is America's Next Top Model."

"That sounds like Paris," Logan agreed. He'd heard more than one of her lectures when she was editor of the Yale Daily News and they were always terrifying.

Silence filled the air between them.

"Did you need something?" she finally asked.

"Need? No, I uh…not exactly…" he paused, suddenly filled with the uncomfortable uncertainty of if she even knew Finn had given him the letter. She had to, right? Jackson was way too ethical to let anyone see it who didn't have her express permission. "I read the letter," he finally admitted

She didn't speak for several beats. "Oh." She finally managed to come up with.

"Yeah."

"So…"

"So, I just…" he let out an audible breath, his shoulders slumping. He should just let it go…like Honor said. She'd made her decision; it wasn't his place to question it. But a part of him still wanted to protect her. He knew she wasn't a victim, that she could take care of herself; but maybe there was a part of him that still wanted to be the hero; a part of him that wanted to be needed, to feel important, and maybe even a little part of himself that wanted to have the satisfaction of being the one who made Mitchum Huntzberger pay. But he needed to let that go. And the only way he could do that was to hear her say it. "I need to know, Rory. Is this really what you want to do? Because if you're just doing it to…"

"I don't want to do this, Logan," she cut him off. "I need to."

"No," he insisted, leaning forward eagerly in his desk chair. "No, you don't. We can figure something else out."

"No, Logan, that's not…" she tried to protest.

He continued on anyway, so invested in his own insistence that he barely even registered her words. "You don't have to do this, not for me."

"Why?" she asked, her voice was suddenly cold and harsh. "Do you not want me to let Jackson publish it? Because you seem awfully invested in keeping me from doing this. Are you ashamed? Embarrassed? You think the world will look at you like a creep because you fell for your father's sloppy seconds?"

"No, Rory, that's not…" He shook his head, cringing a little at the imagery. He'd be lying if he said the thought had never before crossed his mind. He'd struggled for a long time with his feelings for her. Both because of how her past relationship with Mitchum made him view her, but also with how any potential relationship between them would be seen by the world. People weren't going to just accept them as a couple. The public wasn't going to welcome their relationship with open arms. But that was too bad; if he could get past it, they could too.

"I'm doing this, Logan," she said with conviction. There was no question, no hesitancy, no wavering. It was possible her certainty had more to do with proving him wrong than an actual desire to move forward, but he was starting to believe her.

"I'm not telling you not to."

"Oh really?" she asked. "Because it sure as hell sounds like you are."

Logan buried his face in his free hand, scrubbing wearily at his eyes. "I'm sorry, that's not what I meant."

"Then what did you mean?" She still sounded annoyed, but the ice in her voice was starting to crack a little.

"I just wanted to make sure you weren't doing it for the wrong reasons."

"And what exactly are the wrong reasons?"

"For me. To help me; my career, my reputation…" His forehead was resting in his palm now.

"Oh my god, do you hear yourself? Not everything is about you, Logan."

Logan picked his head up again, straightening out his shoulders. "So you expect me to believe it's just a coincidence that you made this decision immediately after finding out Hugo fired me?"

"If you recall correctly, you also told me Jackson was getting ready to pull the story completely. And that Mitchum was threatening Hugo, and your sister and niece. Other people are getting caught up in the crossfire. Our crossfire. And if I don't do something, he's just going to go on hurting people."

"So you're doing this for them?" He asked pointedly. "For Hugo and my sister and all the people he might theoretically hurt in the future?"

"I'm doing this for me!" she insisted.

"And it has absolutely nothing to do with me?"

"Of course it has something to do with you, you idiot. You think I like watching you get fired? Humiliated? Threatened? You think I like watching you lose everything because of me? You walked away from your whole life because me!"

"You don't get to put that on yourself, Rory," he pushed himself up from the chair and started pacing in front of the desk. "I made my choices. I walked away because I had to. Because I needed to be done with him and everything he tried to make me. And I decided to go up against him because it was time. Because for 26 years of my life I let him dictate everything about who I was and who I was going to be, and I didn't want to be that person anymore. So yeah, maybe finding out about you was the impetus I needed, but it wasn't about you. And it's not your job to fix it."

"Well then…" she replied matter-of-factly. A slightly amused sounding scoff transmitted across the phone line. "I guess we're on the same page."

He was confused. The same page? Was she agreeing that his decisions weren't on her? Or was it sarcasm? He was usually well versed in the subtleties of sarcasm. It was right up there was passive aggression and subtext when it came to culturally ingrained methods of communication in the old-money world he'd grown up in. But he wasn't quite sure what he was missing this time. It didn't help that he couldn't see her face. "We are?"

This scoff was lacking the laughter that had accompanied the previous one. "Are you seriously not hearing yourself right now?"

"Rory, please," he pleaded. He didn't have the emotional wherewithal left for playing guessing games.

"I made my choices, Logan," she said pointedly, echoing his words from a moment ago. "I came forward because I had to. Because it was time. Because I needed to be done with him and everything he did to me. Because for the last year and a half of my life, I let him turn me into a scared, meek, insecure little girl and I don't want to be that person anymore. So yeah, maybe you factored into my choice to do this now, but it wasn't about you."

The folly of his own self-centered mindset crashed into him like a wave, washing over him and leaving him dripping with mortification. They were the same; the two of them. In so many ways they were the same. He understood her so much better than he'd even realized. That was what he had taken away from that letter. And yet still, he had been unable to afford her the same agency over her choices that he had; the same admiration and the same accountability. Didn't he owe her that? "You're right," he said, collapsing back into the nearby bed. "I'm sorry."

"That's it? That's all you have to say?"

"What else is there to say?" He had no excuses or defenses. He was wrong. He was wrong to question her motivations and her decisions.

"Nothing," she acknowledged, her voice lighter, almost teasing. "But I'm still surprised you didn't try."

"I'm an idiot, I'm sorry," he repeated.

"Well," she chuckled, and this time it was the scoff that was missing. "No argument from me."

"I'm proud of you, Cherry."

"You are?" He noticed a touch of eagerness to her voice, as though after all of this, despite his stupidity and stubbornness, she still cared what he thought.

"I am," he told her. "If this is what you need to do to take your life back, then I'm proud of you. You deserve to be free of him."

"You do too, you know."

"Thanks," he said, feeling suddenly emboldened by her admission. "I do." He deserved to be free. He deserved to live his life on his terms. He deserved to be happy. Mitchum Huntzberger's sins were his own and Logan didn't have to spend his whole life making amends for them.

"Cherry?" he said after a moment of comfortable silence.

"Yeah?"

"I don't care what people think," he admitted. "I'll confess, the thought did cross my mind in the beginning but after everything, it just feels so…insignificant. I just want to be happy. I want to be happy with you."

He heard what he suspected might be a sniffle and when she spoke, her voice cracked ever so slightly. "I want to be happy with you too."

The sound of pounding on the door caused Finn to pause his game of Grand Theft Auto and set down the controller. He pushed himself up from his seat on the sofa and made his way across the room. A peak through the peep hole confirmed his suspicions.

Finn was both happy and worried to see his boyfriend on the other side of the door; he'd barely laid eyes on the man in over a week. Jackson had gone into full on reporter mode with the advent of Rory's letter, forsaking all other aspects of his identity. If Finn thought he worked too hard before, it was nothing compared to what he'd witnessed since then. If Jackson wasn't out on interview, he was holed up in his own apartment. Before he'd been spending many of his days (and all of his nights) at Finn's working out of the spare bedroom. But now, he declared, he needed no distractions and had retreated back to his own place. And Finn was pretty confident his 'no distractions' decree included the distractions of sleeping, bathing, and eating. Jackson hadn't even picked up the phone to call him. A lesser man might have taken it personally, and well, Finn would be lying if he said it didn't smart a little. But he knew how important this was. So, Finn had taken to calling him…every night at nine to make sure the man was still alive and had remembered to eat.

Whatever he was eating, it wasn't enough, he noted, as he swung the door open to let in his beleaguered boyfriend. His face was unshaven, his cheeks sunken in with visible weight loss, and the dark circles under his eyes looked almost like bruises.

"What's going on? Are you okay?" he asked as Jackson pushed his way into the apartment, his eyes wild with panic, his body language discombobulated. Finn shut the door and turned to face him.

"I'm done."

"Ooooookay…" Finn replied.

"With the article," he clarified as he started pacing aimlessly around the room. "It's written, it's sourced. My documentation is arranged and annotated and fact checked. My editor is fucking thrilled. He says it's brilliant…equal parts poignant and scandalous. He says it's going to be huge."

Finn's lips curled up into a smug grin. Of course it was; Jackson was brilliant, he had no doubts his work would be as well. "That's amazing," he congratulated.

Jackson stopped his pacing and spun to face him. "Is it?"

"Umm," Finn squinted a single eye in bewilderment. "Yes?" he replied uncertainly. It seemed pretty amazing to him, but it was clear Jackson was not so sold.

"This isn't over, Finn. It's just beginning. Do you know what I have to do now?"

"Actually publish it?"

"Before that. Do you know what I have to do?" he reiterated, throwing his arms around with wild abandon.

"Celebrate and bask in the glory of your magnificent accomplishment?" This also seemed to be the wrong answer as Jackson glared irritably at him. "What?" Finn shrugged helplessly. "What do you have to do that is so terrible?"

"I have to call him! I have to call him for comment, Finn. I can't take an article like this to print without at least giving him the opportunity to tell his side."

An uncomfortable creeping sense of panic started to clutch at Finn's own chest. He'd almost forgotten about that little standard of journalistic ethics. "He has no side," he argued weakly.

"It doesn't matter," Jackson continued to rave. "I still have to let him tell it. And when I do…when I pick up that phone and call him, he's going to know. He's going to know who I am. He's going to know that I'm the one working with his disowned son to take him down. He's going to know that I'm the one who's about the ruin his entire life with my goddamn brilliant and scandalous article. And how, exactly, do you think he's going to take that?"

"Umm, not particularly well, I imagine," Finn admitted with a sheepish look on his face. That was an understatement. The man was coocoo for Cocoa Puffs as it was, and he had never taken it well when he didn't get his way. What Mitchum wanted, Mitchum got and anything that stood in the way of that would feel the full effects of his fury. Of course, he knew Mitchum would find out about Jackson when the article came out, but by then all eyes would be on him. The full effects of his fury would be severely mitigated by the damage to his reputation and the fact that he would most likely be surround constantly by media and angry protestors. Plus, the damage would already have been done; threatening Jackson wouldn't save him. But now, this moment between calling for comment and going to print? He hadn't stopped to think about how dangerous it would be for Jackson.

"No!" Jackson resumed his pacing. "No, not well at all. He's going to fucking blow a casket. At least before I was working under the cloak of anonymity. But now? Now I'm going to be enemy numero uno."

"Okay," Finn inhaled deeply, trying to push down the bile crawling its way up his throat. Jackson was going to be okay. He had to be okay. Mitchum was a psychopath but he wouldn't go so far as to cause Jackson physical harm—right? Then again, the whole point of all of this was that he was capable of becoming violent. But that was when he assumed he could get away with it. At the very least, he had to be smart enough to know that if something happened to Jackson he would be a prime suspect. Besides, they could keep him safe for a couple days. "Okay, look at me…" But Jackson just continued to rant and rave, his feet trekking nervously across the living room. "Hey!" Finn reached out his hand to grab Jackson's, stopping him in his tracks and pulling him around to face him. "Look at me," he repeated with much more composure than he felt. He reached up the hand that wasn't in Jackson's to cradle his boyfriend's face. "It's going to be alright," Finn said, looking steadfastly into Jackson's eyes.

"How?" The word had lost all its previous panic and instead was filled with a heartbreaking amount of vulnerability. Jackson was scared, and honestly, so was Finn. But at least they could be scared together.

"Because you're here," he reminded him. "You're here now, with me."

"Okay, but…"

"No, listen. You're here. You're not at your place. He won't know to come looking for you here. And if for some reason he does, this building has some of the best security in Manhattan. You'll be safe. Then, once you go to print, there will be far too much of a spotlight on both of you for him to do anything stupid."

"Right, stupid…" Jackson repeated, some of the tension starting to melt away. "Mitchum's not stupid."

"That he's not." Finn gave a succinct nod of his head.

"I'm safe," The words sounded rote and hollow to Finn's ears. But at least they weren't panicked anymore.

"You're safe," he repeated, pulling Jackson into him and wrapping his arms tightly around him. "You're safe here with me…Always." He wouldn't let anything happen to him. He couldn't. He'd do whatever it took to keep Jackson safe. He held his boyfriend in his arms for a bit as their breathing slowed to an even synchronicity, the oxytocin calming them.

"I have to call," Jackson finally mumbled into Finn's shirt. "I know he's in the office today; I have to catch him before he leaves." He pulled away, taking a shaky breath.

"I'll sit with you," Finn told him, starting to lead him over to the couch. They'd get it over with. Then Finn could make sure he got something to eat and put him to bed. And God help him, he actually meant put him to bed. The boy needed to get some rest. He could make the final edits on the article in the morning.

"Thanks." He started to make his way towards the couch, reaching his hand into his pocket for his phone but he stopped halfway, retracting his hand and turning around.

"Finn?"

"Yeah?"

"I love you."

Mitchum stared at the pages spread out on the desk in front of him, resisting the urge swipe everything off the piece of furniture in a fit of rage and start throwing things. Sure, he could easily afford new things, but those worthless, two-faced, ungrateful motherfuckers didn't deserve the satisfaction of getting under his skin. He wouldn't give them the satisfaction.

So they'd taken out restraining orders? So what? He didn't need to be within 100 yards of them—he had people to do that. There were a million ways he could make them pay without stepping foot outside this office. Their restraining orders were as useless as their journalism degrees these days. It made no difference to him.

Still, the last few weeks had been a clusterfuck of disappointments and inconveniences. Sure, Hugo Grey had indeed fired Logan. That was no surprise, the man liked to put up a big front of pretending Mitchum didn't intimidate him, but when push came to shove, he knew who had the power, and Grey wouldn't risk his company just to stick it to Mitchum. And if he'd caved where Logan was concerned, he surely wouldn't risk moving forward with the hit piece his son had dreamed up. Of course, that didn't stop whichever reporter was working on it from shopping it around to other outlets. Mitchum had ears at all the major publications and networks, but so far, he'd heard crickets about any articles. The problem was, Mitchum didn't know for sure that the 'no news is good news' edict was pertinent in this situation. He liked to think he had enough contacts to get wind of this thing moving forward somewhere, but the truth was, any editor worth their salt would know to keep it as quite as possible, letting people in on a need-to-know basis only.

Mitchum needed more information, more data. He needed to know who Logan and Rory were working with. And so far, that had been a dead end. He'd personally researched all the writers currently working for Skribe media, but nothing about any of them had made them stick out as a likely culprit. He was counting on Rebecca to get Rory to slip-up, but that plan had been sidetracked when Rory had failed to show up for her Krav Maga class last week. And the truth was, that made Mitchum nervous. Because while Rory was hardly the kind of person to become a Krava Maga junky, she was the kind of person to honor her commitments. If she had signed up for a class, it was unlike her not to follow through.

And it wasn't just his lack of progress in this matter that had him on edge lately; he had his actual business to run too. Between the news that their Seattle paper had lost their Editor-in-Chief to the Chronicle and the major defamation suit their Chicago publication was fighting, Mitchum was up to his ears in bad news.

So yeah, maybe Rory and Logan and their feeble attempts at intimidation via a barely enforceable legal document didn't even deserve his attention, but the straws were building up and his back was getting ready to break. And the straw that was causing him the greatest consternation at the moment, the part that made him angriest, was the fact that the restraining orders had been delivered together. Which meant they had been coordinated. Which meant they had been in contact. A fact which neither he nor Anatoly had managed to pick up on. According to Anatoly, Logan had barely left Honor's house all week except to go to the gym and the grocery store. None of the phone tap recordings had been between the two of them. He'd even managed to procure phone records from Honor, Lorelai, and Paris, in case they'd been communicating that way, and they'd all turned up clean. If there was one thing Mitchum hated more than anything, it was being outsmarted. He was at the very top of the journalism world. His investigative skills were bar none, the best in the nation. And he'd somehow managed to be fucked over by his barely competent son and his shrew of an ex. Restraining order or no restraining order, they were going to pay for that.

Mitchum was stirred from his angry ruminations by the buzz of his intercom. "Mr. Huntzberger?" Mathew's voice echoed through the room.

"What?" he growled.

"There's a phone call for you."

Mitchum groaned. Who the hell could it be? It wasn't like Mathew to put a caller straight through; he knew to take a message unless it was on the schedule or the matter was dire. He was an important man, he called people back on his time.

"Unless it's life or death, I'm indisposed," he grunted. He wasn't in the mood for some stupid update from legal or something.

"Umm, I really think you want to take this," Mathew informed him, his voice unusually nervous.

"Who is it?"

"It's...Jackson Andrews." Jackson Andrews? Mitchum had to think for a moment. The name was familiar…he racked his brain, trying to place it. And then he remembered…He was the son of that Ponzi scheme guy and the Broadway actress. He'd written that article for the Examiner on sexual assault on college campuses last year; well researched, decent prose, excellent story telling. Still, it was completely unprofessional for a young journalist to be contacting him directly. If he wanted a job, he could apply just like everyone else.

"While I appreciate his moxie, this is hardly life and death. Have him email his resume to HR like a normal person."

"Umm, I'm pretty sure he's not looking for a job."

"Then wh…" Mitchum stopped himself, a suddenly uncomfortable creeping sensation settling deep in his gut. Jackson Andrews? No way. He was a small fish in a huge pond. No way would The Examiner let him take on a story this big. No way could someone as young and inexperienced as him pull it off. It couldn't be. But then again, he had a sudden recollection of seeing some picture of him somewhere with Logan's idiot Australian friend so there was a connection. Still, he was probably just overreacting.

"Mr. Huntzberger?" Mathew's voice broke him from his thoughts and he realized he'd been quiet for longer than he realized.

"Then what does he want?" he finished asking, not letting his concern show in the waver of his voice.

"Umm, I think maybe you should let him tell you that." Mathew's uncharacteristic hesitance gave Mitchum even greater pause, the knot in his stomach turning into a double knot. "Line one."

Mitchum swallowed, squaring his shoulders in preparation for a fight, but taking care not to let it show in his voice, lest he was wrong. "Jackson Andrews," he greeted amiably as he picked up the line. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Mitchum Huntzberger?" he asked for confirmation.

"The one and only."

"I'm calling to find out if you have any comment on the allegations that you used your position of power to coerce women who worked for you into sexual relationships; and that you've been physically abusive to your past romantic partners."

"Excuse me?" Mitchum scoffed, doing his best to sound offended rather than pissed beyond hell. As if Logan and Rory pulling one over on him weren't bad enough, this was the guy they did it with? He was barely old enough to wipe his own butt. He felt the anger throbbing inside of him, pushing against his skin like it was trying to break free of the confines of his limited, corporeal body.

"I'm working on an article for The Examiner. I have several on and off the source records making similar allegations against you, as well as physical documentation that substantiates their contentions. I can email you copies if you'd like, so that you can review them for comment."

"You can email them to me?" he hissed, suddenly unable to contain himself any longer. "Listen you fucking weasel, you have no clue who the fuck you're messing with. You have sources? You have documentation? You have nothing! You're nothing but a mediocre writer with one halfway decent investigative piece. I have more journalism awards than you have feather boas, you fucking Nancy. I have a reputation. I have influence in this field. And I have more money than your felon father could embezzle in three lifetimes. You want to mess with me?"

"I just want to give you a fair chance to respond," Jackson replied, but his voice was stilted and Mitchum could hear the sudden stiffness in his jaw. He'd hit a sore spot. "But I assure you," he continued to ground out, "my research is solid, my facts are checked, and my sources are vetted. If you want the opportunity to save the reputation you seem so very proud of, your best bet is to do it via on the record comment. Because as of athursday morning, my editor has every intention of taking this story to print—with or without your side of things."

"You want a comment you cut-rate Erin Brockovich? I'll give you a comment. Go to fucking hell. Because I'm going to make sure you burn for this. You'll never work in journalism again." Mitchum slammed the phone down and with one heaving sweep of his arms, he gave in to his earlier desire and sent all the contents of his desk crashing to the floor.

AN: So there it is folx, one more chapter closer to the end. And it was a doozy. You got some nice Rogan AND JackFinn interaction. And our first ILY from Jackson. How will Finn take it? Do we think he'll reciprocate? And let's not forget Mitchum; dear screwed Mitchum. Things are not going well for him. Does anybody want to shed any tears for the man? No? I didn't think so. But the big question of course is, what will he do now?

We should find out soon since we're coming to the end, my friends. I believe we have 2 more chapters and an epilogue. My plan (which I in no way hold myself accountable to) is to write another chapter of this next, then give you MP fans an update, then bust out the last 2 chapters of FA. Please, please, please leave a review. My muse has been lacking lately and some reviews are a good way to get it going so we can get to the conclusion of this epic tale.