A/n: Thanks again for your reviews, guys.

This flashback picks up just about where the last one left off, with Logan going back to his father's house.

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"Since when did the great Eyes Only let the Fred Flintstones of this world tell him what to do?"

"Since I was like, three?"

Max and Logan, Shorties In Love.

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Chapter 31: Fond Memories

Logan entered his old room, hesitantly, for the first time in four years. The powder blue walls seemed to have shrunk inwards from his hazy memory, but it was still filled with expensive toys he could half remember having. The room smelled musty, as if the only people who'd entered it since he left had been the maids, to dust the spotless shelves.

That started him thinking about his mother again. She used to work hard all day to earn money, then come home and make dinner before cleaning their apartment until even the rust shone. He'd helped her in every way he could; she'd been the most important, in fact almost the only person in his life for as long as he could remember... and now she was gone.

For the first time, tears began to burn at Logan's eyes. He pushed the heels of his hands into his eyes to stop them, holding his breath against the sobs trying to escape his throat. He would not cry. Only babies cried, so his father said, and if he caught him he'd send Logan away and he'd be alone again, for good this time.

That was one of the few clear memories Logan had of his father. Logan senior had taken a day off work for once, so they'd had a picnic on the lawn behind the house, just the three of them. Something good had happened; the usually serious man even smiled as he watched his son toddle towards the mini climbing frame that had been a present for his third birthday.

"Be careful, Logan," his mother called out, concerned, as he reached for the monkey bars.

"Don't coddle the boy, Linda, he's safe as CI's share prices," Logan senior had scoffed, watching proudly. "He'll be an athlete when he's older, you mark my words."

Filled with delight at an outright compliment from his normally distant, disapproving dad, Logan climbed up on top of the bars and balanced there, a huge grin on his cherubic features.

Neither of his parents saw, they'd turned to look at one another. Logan was about to call out when he felt himself slipping. A couple of terrifying seconds later he was on the ground, his leg hurt and there were warm tears on his cheeks.

"Junior!" The tone was not fear, but exasperation, disappointment. Logan's dad knelt by his side, swiftly checking for any kind of serious injury.

"Logan, baby, are you ok?" His mother's voice was almost hysterical. "Where does it hurt?"

"Stop fussing, Linda! Go and fetch a band aid or something; it's just a graze." The minute her frightened face had disappeared, Logan had looked seriously at his son.

"Stop that crying, Junior. Only babies cry; you're not a baby any more, are you?"

"No, daddy," Logan had managed, sniffing, trying his best to stop the tears escaping from his eyes.

"Good boy. You're not badly hurt; later on, you're to say sorry to your mother for upsetting her over nothing like that."

"Yes, daddy," the little boy replied, a kind of wonder in his tone. This was the most his father had said to him since the last time he'd been yelled at for sneaking into his office.

"Now, be a brave boy and walk back to the house, and I'll give you a reward," he encouraged.

Logan's innocent brow creased in determination. There was blood on his leg, and his hands and elbow stung from his fall, but to gain his father's approval, the pain was worth it. He clambered to his feet, and even hurried to keep up with his father's long legged stride on the way.

His mother met them at the door, looking distraught. "Logan! What are you doing, letting your son walk when he's hurt!"

"I'm ok, mom," said Logan, feeling very grown up suddenly. "I'm sorry I upset you."

He felt a hand touch his hair briefly. "That's my boy, Junior," said his father approvingly. "Oh, yes, I promised you a present..." he reached into his wallet and withdrew a crisp ten dollar bill.

"You save it for something important," he said vaguely.

"Thank you, dad," said Logan, brimming with happiness. It wasn't the money he was pleased about; that meant little to a child who'd always had everything he ever wanted provided for him. It was the gesture, that his father had rewarded him, was proud of him.

Logan snapped back into the present, that rare pleasant memory of his father evaporating from his mind, as the door opened and the real thing walked in.

"Ah, there you are, Junior. Your Uncle Jonas and Aunt Margo are here for dinner, with your cousins. You must come and see them." He eyed the boy suspiciously. "You haven't been crying, have you?"

"No, dad," he said tonelessly. "I haven't."

"Good. Come on, we can't keep our guests waiting."

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