FICLET: Reteaching a Learned Lesson (Logan)
Title: Reteaching a Learned Lesson
Author: Jess
Character / Pairing: Logan
Rating: PG
Word Count: 700
Disclaimer: RT and the CW own him, though they don't deserve him.
Spoilers: Through 2.01 "Normal is the Watchword"
Summary: Logan goes home after he's been arrested and has learned of Aaron's arrest.
Author's Notes: For flinkkamingo3's prompt of angsty Logan. I don't think I did it justice, but I tried. Not beta'd since I'm only posting it on my journal.
The third thing Logan Echolls did upon returning to his house after his long, harrowing night spent in the Neptune County Jail was locate a screwdriver.
The fourth thing he did was carefully, methodically remove the door from his father's office.
He stood back, appraising his work. The white door was propped innocuously against the frame of his mother's least favorite André Derain. It seemed a foolish thing to do, to take a door off its hinges, but Logan was immensely relieved. Satisfied, he carried the to the back patio and laid it down. He cleared the deck chairs and tables away and went back into the house.
He didn't even look inside the office as he passed it this time. No, he'd have business there later. Just now, he carried his screwdriver to his parents' bedroom. Funny how there were still fresh flowers on his mother's bedside table - white lilys-of-the-valley, to be exact. It was funny because his mother was no longer there to enjoy them.
Logan didn't laugh.
He went to his father's closet, opened the heavy door, and strode purposefully to the cabinet that housed his collection of tasteful, expensive (for good taste is easily purchased) belts, shoes, and ties. It smelled like silk, leather, and cologne in the small closet, but underneath that odor, there was something else, something sinister. Or maybe Logan only thought the small room stank of sweat and blood. He gagged and backed away, stumbling a few feet to the pristine white comforter and vomiting onto the carpet.
He steadied himself by sucking in a few heaving breaths, and heedless of the mess, he went singlemindedly back to his reason for coming. Inside the closet, he dismantled the belt chest, quickly but efficiently, pocketing each screw as it fell from its hole in the wall.
Once the doors were off, he laid them aside and started piling the belts on top of them. This done, he carried it all outside to the patio.
Logan returned to his father's office, and from his desk he grabbed a glass paperweight in the shape of a pyramid, the apex broken into three sharp points. He took a sterling silver Zippo lighter and a key from the desk drawer. With the key, he opened the liquor cabinet in the the banquet under the window and removed an almost-full bottle of The Dalmore.
He carried all of these items outside and assembled them in a heap, finishing the task by splashing a good bit of the scotch onto a towel he'd plucked from the bin near the pool and even more on the pile itself.
Quietly, soberly, his expression only notable for its complete lack of expression, Logan lit the rag on fire with the Zippo, knelt, and set the pile on fire. The flame caught, and spread where he'd doused the heap with liquor. The orange-blue flash of fire flickered out for a moment, but then the belts caught, filling the air with the acrid scent of burning flesh. Next the paint on the white door started to smoke, then to blacken and peel away, revealing the untreated blonde wood beneath, cheap and plain. It caught, turning red and then yellow bright, and soon the fire was as tall as Logan, the heat repelling him to stand back. As he looked on, staring into the heart, he saw the pebbled glass reflecting the flames, then turn a molten orange color all their own.
He stood, watching his father's things burn and moulder until the very last ember died and the sun started to peek over the palm trees at the edge of his vision. Impassively, he walked to the blackened heap, now only a mound of ashes as big as a basketball. He toed the mess, careful not to burn himself, and found the pyramid paperweight at the bottom, now a malformed lump of black glass covered in soot. Gingerly, he rolled it to the edge of the swimming pool and nudged it in. It hit the surface of the water with an anticlimactic plonk and floated wearily to the bottom.
Logan laughed.
Author: Jess
Character / Pairing: Logan
Rating: PG
Word Count: 700
Disclaimer: RT and the CW own him, though they don't deserve him.
Spoilers: Through 2.01 "Normal is the Watchword"
Summary: Logan goes home after he's been arrested and has learned of Aaron's arrest.
Author's Notes: For flinkkamingo3's prompt of angsty Logan. I don't think I did it justice, but I tried. Not beta'd since I'm only posting it on my journal.
The third thing Logan Echolls did upon returning to his house after his long, harrowing night spent in the Neptune County Jail was locate a screwdriver.
The fourth thing he did was carefully, methodically remove the door from his father's office.
He stood back, appraising his work. The white door was propped innocuously against the frame of his mother's least favorite André Derain. It seemed a foolish thing to do, to take a door off its hinges, but Logan was immensely relieved. Satisfied, he carried the to the back patio and laid it down. He cleared the deck chairs and tables away and went back into the house.
He didn't even look inside the office as he passed it this time. No, he'd have business there later. Just now, he carried his screwdriver to his parents' bedroom. Funny how there were still fresh flowers on his mother's bedside table - white lilys-of-the-valley, to be exact. It was funny because his mother was no longer there to enjoy them.
Logan didn't laugh.
He went to his father's closet, opened the heavy door, and strode purposefully to the cabinet that housed his collection of tasteful, expensive (for good taste is easily purchased) belts, shoes, and ties. It smelled like silk, leather, and cologne in the small closet, but underneath that odor, there was something else, something sinister. Or maybe Logan only thought the small room stank of sweat and blood. He gagged and backed away, stumbling a few feet to the pristine white comforter and vomiting onto the carpet.
He steadied himself by sucking in a few heaving breaths, and heedless of the mess, he went singlemindedly back to his reason for coming. Inside the closet, he dismantled the belt chest, quickly but efficiently, pocketing each screw as it fell from its hole in the wall.
Once the doors were off, he laid them aside and started piling the belts on top of them. This done, he carried it all outside to the patio.
Logan returned to his father's office, and from his desk he grabbed a glass paperweight in the shape of a pyramid, the apex broken into three sharp points. He took a sterling silver Zippo lighter and a key from the desk drawer. With the key, he opened the liquor cabinet in the the banquet under the window and removed an almost-full bottle of The Dalmore.
He carried all of these items outside and assembled them in a heap, finishing the task by splashing a good bit of the scotch onto a towel he'd plucked from the bin near the pool and even more on the pile itself.
Quietly, soberly, his expression only notable for its complete lack of expression, Logan lit the rag on fire with the Zippo, knelt, and set the pile on fire. The flame caught, and spread where he'd doused the heap with liquor. The orange-blue flash of fire flickered out for a moment, but then the belts caught, filling the air with the acrid scent of burning flesh. Next the paint on the white door started to smoke, then to blacken and peel away, revealing the untreated blonde wood beneath, cheap and plain. It caught, turning red and then yellow bright, and soon the fire was as tall as Logan, the heat repelling him to stand back. As he looked on, staring into the heart, he saw the pebbled glass reflecting the flames, then turn a molten orange color all their own.
He stood, watching his father's things burn and moulder until the very last ember died and the sun started to peek over the palm trees at the edge of his vision. Impassively, he walked to the blackened heap, now only a mound of ashes as big as a basketball. He toed the mess, careful not to burn himself, and found the pyramid paperweight at the bottom, now a malformed lump of black glass covered in soot. Gingerly, he rolled it to the edge of the swimming pool and nudged it in. It hit the surface of the water with an anticlimactic plonk and floated wearily to the bottom.
Logan laughed.