6. The Man With A Plan

The limo slowed at the curb, but Logan again had already opened the door before the car had come to a complete stop. Frank shook his head, that boy would break his neck before I can retire. But broken bones seem like a small price to pay for Ms. Rory, he thought with fondness–and approval, as Mr. Logan told him to return to their Yale apartment via the speediest way possible. He did wonder why Logan left the Huntzberger mansion without Ms. Rory, but he wasn't one to ask. Just as he never asked about the shushed noises and mysterious thumps in the backseat when those two were together, noises and thumps he was thankfully spared from today.

Logan strode to the elevator, side-stepping an extremely startled George, who seemed to want to tell him something but he had already pushed the button "12" with his cane. "Hey George, what's up?" he called out happily, as the elevator door closed.

What's "up" is not Ms. Rory Gilmore, George thought unhappily. First he receives a call from Ms. Gilmore alerting him to the stalled elevator, which brought him to a preoccupied and lost Mr. Huntzberger needing his assistance to go down to the lobby, then he spends an uncomfortable minute with a teary Ms. Gilmore, wringing her hands as they went down to the lobby as well, then now Mr. Huntzberger again–all chirpy–going up to his empty apartment. Never before did he have to rely so heavily on his 5-star training as a doorman to remain discreet amidst all these bizarre comings-and-goings.

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As he waited for the elevator to arrive at the 12th floor, Logan remembered yet again his words to Rory that fateful night at The Rich Man's Shoe.

Really? It's all so easy for me? I don't want that life, it's forced on me! You talk about all these doors being open–all I see is ONE door, and I'm being pushed through it. I have no choice. You try living without options.

For maybe the first time in his life, he asked his father to give him a choice. And for the first time in his life, his father had given him one. Doors were opening. He finally felt he was headed somewhere.

The elevator doors parted, and Logan limped to 12B with huge strides. He wondered for a second whether he should be more stealthy and surprise her, but his heart was so full he couldn't help but shout "Ace!" as he turned his key in the lock.

"Ace? Rory?" he called out, noticing with some puzzlement that she still hadn't cleared up after last night's party. She usually didn't leave things in a mess for too long. She always ribbed him about being worse than her mother, which he knew--having been told of Lorelai's methods of keeping house--meant something pretty bad. "Ace, are you here?" he asked, walking into their bathroom. Well, that's it, Logan thought, surveying the entire apartment with a glance. She's not here, he realized with disappointment.

Should I wait, he wondered. Did she go to the Daily News? Did she go out for coffee? He sat on the couch to take a minute, and automatically ended up slouching back into the cushions and closing his eyes. He'd had a restless night and an even more restless morning. It was noon, and he felt dead tired all of a sudden.

I have a proposition for you.

Okay. Shoot.

Mitchum had approached him then, reaching for his wallet in his back pocket and pulling out a business card. He gives it to Logan.

"Robert Stansfeld," Logan read aloud. Then whipped his head up to look at his father. "The Robert Stansfeld of Morning Cup Enterprises?" Understanding slowly dawned on him. "Why are you doing this?" he asked Mitchum.

"The last thing you want right now is me around you breathing down your neck," Mitchum told him pointedly. "Don't bother denying it."

"I'm not going to," Logan replied. "But Morning Cup is the closest competitor of Huntzberger Media. This means you're either feeding me to the wolves, or using me as a pawn, grooming me as a spy, or…"

"Or letting you go on your way. In good faith, Logan," Mitchum continued for him. "Consider yourself a Yale graduate with a knack for writing, out looking for a job," Mitchum shrugged. "I've just given you a good connection."

"Right. And I'm just supposed to saunter over to their head office in New York, submit a CV, turn up for an interview, and say 'oh by the way, I'm Logan Huntzberger. Yes, that Huntzberger'? Or do you expect me to change my name, go incognito? If this is weird to me, imagine how they would take it, dad," Logan argued, confused.

"Oh, let them think what they want. Make up a story that I've cut you off, whatever you want to tell them," Mitchum waved his hands, now having a bit more fun with the idea. "You can take this however you want, but my only intention is this, Logan: I've only ever wanted you to spend some time getting your feet wet in journalism, the newspaper business. Now if you get it in your head that that's what you want too, then go ahead and do it elsewhere; it doesn't have to be in my house."

Logan opened his mouth to speak, but Mitchum interrupted him: "BUT," he pointed a finger at Logan, "I repeat, in good faith, Logan." With that, both Logan and Mitchum turned away from each other, Logan to the door and Mitchum to his desk.

"And Bob is the one I respect the most among the lot of them," Mitchum followed through, as he settled in his chair. "You won't get eaten alive in that wolf's den," he smirked. "Unless you let yourself. I'm not really doing you any favors, Logan."

"Oh, I can believe that, dad." And so he left without needing to thank his father.

Logan came back to the present, in his and Rory's apartment, with the words 'in good faith' stuck in his mind. That means, in Mitchum-speak: Don't do anything that would fuck up my company. Don't fuck up, period. If you do fuck up, don't come running back to me. Now If you don't fuck up and you find what you want during this time that I-your-father am giving you, then go and work for me in Huntzberger Media. In the meantime, don't the fuck expect anything from me.

He wasn't sure what to think. Mitchum listening to him, let alone pushing him practically in the opposite direction of London, had him feeling thrown and not a little suspicious. His father was shrewd and devious when he wanted to be; he always thought of things in terms of how he and his company could benefit. Even–or maybe especially–when it came to his son. He was a jackass that way; always needing to come out with the upper hand.

But whatever his motives, to Logan it was a way out. He can decide to work for Bob Stansfeld. Or he could not. With or without Mitchum's machinations, he could wing this. He could deal with wolves. Or he could just write. Write and be within hours from Rory. You are like me, Mitchum had said. Logan winced inwardly. Whatever that entailed, he hoped he could be less of an ass at least.

He heaved a sigh, and started clearing up empty plates, cups, confetti. As he moved from the living room to the kitchen, he felt growing anticipation at his new freedom. Write out a job application? he mused. Rory would mock him forever for that, especially when he tells her he probably needs her help. Rory. Where is she? What would she think? She would likely fret and fume and immediately think the worst of Mitchum. But he'll be near her. And he'll be happier than he can ever be than if he were in London. That should make her happy, too, right? It's too good a deal to pass up.

Moving from the living room to their work/study corner (which really was just Rory's work/study corner), Logan removed coffee-stained mugs from her desk, and absent-mindedly glanced through her stacks of folders, piled neatly on one side of the table and lined up on the shelf on top. Color-coded, of course, he chuckled. With an impish grin, he impulsively laid out the pile on her desk, and haphazardly rearranged them on top of each other. She'll kill me.

He stopped abruptly when he paused long enough to read her handwriting on the spines of the folders in front of him. Several red folders said China (Beijing or Taiwan?). Each folder had a different neon-colored tab stuck in front: yellow for "Sights", blue for "Food", green for "Shopping", pink for "Other trivial but potentially important details". Oh, Ace, my notes-freak. The blue folders were for Vietnam, all equipped with the same tabs. Yellow folders read Thailand (Bangkok AND Phuket!). A single white folder, the thinnest of the lot, for England.

With a knot in his throat, Logan sat down on their bed, dropping Rory's folders beside him as he began to peruse each one.

They were at General Lee's, eating a formidable 12-course lauriat. Rory smacked her lips at her General Tso's chicken, exclaiming "General Tso, I place my bet on you whipping Colonel KFC's ass in an Iron Chef chicken face-off!"

Logan shook his head at her, forever amazed and a bit intimidated at his girlfriend's appetite. "I don't even think a General Tso exists. He's a figment of some New Yorker's imagination, or whoever it was who conceived of Chinatown and cardboard take-out boxes."

"Nope. I have it on good authority that General Tso was an esteemed, feared military warlord who fought many bloody battles towards the end of the Ming dynasty. Or was it the Q'ang?" Rory retorted.

"Bloody battles, huh. Fought with General Lee the restauranteur I presume. Now I know why the chicken is red and spicy," Logan snapped his chopsticks, mocking Rory as she shoved him.

"Do not mock me while I'm eating, Logan!" she threatened with a laugh.

"Ace, I bet if we went to China, we wouldn't be able to find a single dish named after either General in any restaurant we went to."

"Now that's just sad. You doubting my knowledge of Asian history, and the idea that there could be no General Tso to be had for the billions of Chinese folk."

"Well…there's only one way to settle this, you know…" Logan suggested on impulse, suddenly inspired by his crazy debate with Rory. And the Asia tour was hatched over the remaining 7 courses of their Chinese dinner. And the remainder of their evening in bed.

"Logan, I'm happy," Rory said with a shy smile to Logan, who moved slowly from above her to beside her.

"Oh, I fully expected you would be. I think we set the record for 'most mind-blowing sex after a 12-course dinner', if there ever was a category for that," he mumbled sleepily, pulling Rory against him. "I swear you're turning me into an overweight sex slave. And yes, I'm happy too, Ace," he whispered as his eyes finally drifted shut, letting her know he heard her.

"I'm happy that you and I are planning this trip together," Rory continued, "because that means we are actually thinking about 'us' in the next 3 months. Us, together. A far cry from the little arrangement I cooked up at my grandparents' vow renewal, don't you think?" Rory jabbed his rib when he didn't answer. "Low-gan," she breathed into his ear...

Surprising Rory, Logan replied, "Us together for much much longer...longer than the next 3 months, and for much much farther, farther away than Asia."

He wouldn't say "forever", that might scare the heebeejeebies out of her. It certainly felt that way, though.

Satisfied, Rory dropped a final kiss on Logan's mouth, and got settled for sleep--her leg caught between his, her face smooshed against his shoulder.

A few days later, the ugly confrontation with Mitchum happened at the Vineyard, where Rory first heard about his father's plan to ship him off to London. This was followed by the chapter in their relationship known as "The Bridesmaids". And then things went downhill from there, quite literally, and he had the broken ribs to show for it. Asia was forgotten in the haze of bed rest and anesthesia, the mad scramble to graduation, and London.

Until now. Staring at a blue folder in his hand, Logan felt a deep urge to kick himself and break the kneecap of his good leg.

With a grunt of impatience, Logan stood up and paced–hobbled–from one end of the bed to the other. Long minutes passed, until his regret dissipated and the hopefulness he earlier felt coming into the apartment returned. He absolutely loved it when a plan started coming together. Especially when it involved Rory.

He grabbed the phone that was haphazardly thrown on the couch. He looked at the last number dialled, and saw that it was Lorelai's mobile. Yes, she's most likely at Stars Hollow.

Then he punched more numbers, and said to the person who answered, "Finn?...No, it's my voice from the dead, come back to haunt you and ask you to pay back the $5 you owe me, plus damages for my punctured lung…"

"…No mate, I'm actually in New Haven…it's a long story, now stop groaning, rehydrate your ass and get it here. I still have a plane to catch!"