Throwing the Crown Vic into park, Logan exited the vehicle, his jaw working furiously over the two sticks of Nicorette he had jammed into his mouth during the drive. He rounded the front of the car and strolled up the steps to the massive double front doors. The mansion was a typical 19th century monster, full of gables and turrets and porticos and shit Logan didn't even have a name for. He grabbed the keypad lock and punched in the code, fully aware the other two men were watching, and he spread his legs slightly and stuck his ass out, just for the hell of it.<br/><br/>The lock clicked open, and he removed it and opened the doors. They swung open, revealing a gaudy interior foyer big enough to host a wedding reception. A chandelier glinted overhead, and their footsteps echoed along the polished marble floors. Glances left and right showed an equally over the top drawing room and a formal reception room, plus myriad other rooms continuing down the wide center hallway. A massively carved wooden staircase lay in front of them, ornate and intimidating, a blood red carpet runner covering the steps. Logan couldn't imagine growing up as a kid in this monstrosity, which looked more like a mausoleum than a home.<br/><br/><em>Huh, no wonder Philip wanted to knock his old man off. This house would make anybody grow up batshit crazy.</em><br/><br/>Not that Logan had anything against patricide. He thought about whacking his own old man every time Patrick McNally came home drunk from the local bar and starting beating Peg, Logan's mother. She was a gentle, timid woman who went to Mass every morning and believed Fr. Fitzgerald when he told her that if she was a better wife and mother, her husband wouldn't feel the need to beat her. Fortunately for Peg the beatings stopped when Logan turned sixteen and decided he had heard enough. He confronted Patrick, grabbed the fist that just split his mother's lip and told his father that if he ever did it again, he'd break his arm. Patrick gazed at his son, perhaps realizing for the first time that the boy now towered over him by a good four inches and outweighed him by twenty pounds of muscle.<br/><br/>Patrick snorted and shuffled off to pass out in bed while Logan silently handed his mother some ice for her lip. The beatings stopped, but as the years went on, Logan always got the awful feeling that his mother somehow resented his interference. He never could understand it, and he often wondered if the result had anything to do with his preference of sexual partners. Sure, he fucked girls in high school, and even a few in college, but the older he got, the more he found himself attracted to men almost exclusively.<br/><br/>Which brought his thoughts back to the present and the two fine specimens of male flesh wandering around the mansion with him. Briefly he thought about the opulent, comfortable and most importantly<em>empty</em>bedrooms upstairs, and he wondered if his Captain would mind too terribly if Logan took a few minutes out of his day to fuck one or the other...oh hell,<em>both</em>men silly. Somehow he knew the answer to that question. Sighing heavily at his misfortune, he started up the stairs, knowing without a doubt his companions were watching his ass...literally.<br/><br/>"The fun stuff's upstairs, boys." He drawled, leading both men up to the bedroom where Alfred drew his last breath.