A/N: Pretty much all the gratitude in the world goes to NotThereNeverAround for a hell of a lot of things: editing, rewriting, naming this story, listening to me whine more than you can imagine. She's nothing short of a superhero with extra awesome thrown in and a much better writer than me, so go check out her stuff.
Chapter One
There's a throng of Christmas lights and nearly as many townspeople in the Dragonfly. The words 'fire code violation' keep flashing through his head, twinkling in rhythm with the lights. It's all building up to a headache the champagne isn't helping, but he has to keep drinking to make it through the night, and through being cornered in turn by each and every single one of the people in the room. Over here we have exhibit number one, former teenage town hoodlum, now grown up and reformed. Don't worry, he won't bite, step right up, folks. He's been through every variation on the same theme he can think of: "Philadelphia, small independent book publisher, we talk on the phone, sorry, I think I see someone else." And, somehow, through every inane conversation, he's caught enough of her over shoulders and between people because, goddammit, his eyes are still drawn to her.
What he sees are chinks. She's there, the grownup version of the her he knew, but there's a new her behind it all, one that bleeds through the cracks. A dropped smile, faraway look, nervous digging of fingers into palm. The not quite there unless you're staring too closely skipped breaths when someone drops something across the room. And he definitely is staring too closely.
Nineteen year old him would have shouted to the skies – he was big on the shouting, that guy – that he saw them because he knew her. A few weeks past thirty him – who's had some therapy, but a lot more self-revelations from booze fueled nights – is probably nearly ok enough to admit to himself it's because he's got a few chinks of his own. Beacons of fucked upeddness, spotlighting straight onto someone else's fucked upeddness.
He's just finished talking to Andrew, the first nearly not making him want to garrote himself with a string of lights conversation of the night, and now there's finally some respite spent wondering if the champagne was ever going to be replaced by something with less literal bang and more of the metaphorical kind. He's about to go find Luke to ask about it when she walks up to him. There's a smile, and he smiles too. Not awkward, not entirely, but not entirely easy either.
"You finally made it to one of these things," she waves her glass delicately to indicate the party around them.
"There was a lot of cajoling. I didn't think you were coming," he adds after a pause, an afterthought.
"Hey, that makes it sound like you wouldn't be here if you'd known." It's light-hearted. She laughs at the end of it. "I've promised one too many Christmases I didn't get to deliver on in the end so I said no, but there was a change of plans. Surprise."
"Good. I bet Lorelai's glad to see you." She's been hovering around her daughter all evening, rarely more than five steps away.
"If I go missing, she's probably locked me somewhere so I don't leave again."
"I'll alert the authorities." He wants to say something, but it all feels stupid. Nice weather we're having, looks like it's gonna be a white Christmas. How've you been? Anything happen in the last ten years?
"Rory!" A voice calls from somewhere in the crowd and she shrugs apologetically.
"Speaking of my future kidnapper."
"Just pull your ear three times if you need me to call for help."
"Which one?"
"Either. One I can see would probably work better."
"Makes sense. Catch up later, ok?"
"Sure."
Six glasses of champagne later, he hightails it out of there, the 'later' not having happened.
He stops by the diner on the way from Andrew's. He knows Luke knows he's just procrastinating over going to Liz's house, but neither of them says anything. Somehow, he still isn't quite sure how to deal with PTA mom Liz, even if he's managed to shake the constant 'after me, the flood' expectation he used to have of her.
He isn't sure how he got roped into helping out but before long he's got an order pad in his hands. Outside, the winter carnival is in full swing, and the same song has been blaring from the speakers for at least as long as he's been in town. All he wants for Christmas is for the CD to spontaneously combust, sorry, Mariah.
After explaining to some guy three times that no, they don't do gluten free burger buns, yes, he's sure, no, he doesn't need to check, he finally gets him to order a burger with no bun. He's just about to head back to the kitchen when he sees her, walking away from the Mrs Kim's booth of eternal fire and damnation towards someone standing on the sidewalk. It doesn't take much to figure out who the tall guy with straggly hair is, even if he's got a toddler glued to his side instead of a middle schooler. It's all so déjà vu it makes him smile. He's stood in that place watching them together about a million times, or what felt like it. The town had a way of bringing it all back together. Some shit never changes.
He watches her tilt her head towards her mother and then look at the diner, no doubt telling Dean they were on the way there. Dean looks at the diner too, and they both spot him at the same time. She laughs and waves. He nods in greeting, before shaking it off and turning away from the scene. He's not seventeen any more, none of them are. He hands the order to Luke.
"I think I've seen that movie before." Luke tells him, looking at the window and Rory and Dean beyond it.
"Tell me about it. I should head out, Liz is probably waiting."
"Yeah, sure. Thanks for the help."
"No problem."
He shoves his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket and heads outside. He toys with the idea of going over, just to relive it all, but some woman he doesn't know has joined the small group, another little kid holding onto her hand.
She's in the Dragonfly's foyer, coat on, impatient look on too. He's just back from Liz's and trying to decide if he would rather brave the dining room or the town for dinner. She stops her pacing abruptly in front of him, an inch too close.
"Hey," she smiles, pushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "Sorry, I didn't mean to nearly run you over."
"I'll live."
"I saw you've given up writing for the great calling of bussing tables."
"Had to find something that can actually pay the bills."
"Only until that Nobel prize money comes in."
"Should be any day now." He smirks. "Where are you off to?"
"Grandparents' house, if mom ever finishes whatever she's doing. Well, grandma's house now, I suppose." There's a lot of sadness there, and something he thinks looks like guilt.
"I heard about your grandfather. I'm sorry."
"Thanks. Mom said you sent her a card."
He shifts his weight to the other foot, looking down at them. "Yeah, I don't know. Luke mentioned it, so I…"
"It was nice."
"Must be why it felt so weird then." He chuckles. "This afternoon, in town, with…" He tilts his head towards the general direction of town.
"Yeah, that was…"
"Weird?" He finishes her sentence when she stops and she nods.
"Definitely."
"Was that his kid? Or is he the town's Child Catcher?"
"Taylor's not quite there yet, though he did try to hand out thirty day bans from public places to any child found crying above seventy decibels." She runs her right hand absentmindedly over her left shoulder. "It was his. He's got a couple, third on the way. I met his wife too. She's nice."
"Good for him." There's a short earnest nod.
"At least someone's got it together."
"Says the international war correspondent."
This time it's her looking at her feet. "I've got the job thing, I suppose, but the rest…"
"I know the feeling."
She looks up again and she's somehow moved closer. They're still too far to touch, not without the intention to do so, but they both know they should probably move away. They don't.
"I'm going to take some comfort in knowing I'm not the only one still working on it."
"It's this town, I think. Makes you feel bad for not being cookie cutter," he says.
She wants to reply, but Lorelai scrambles into the room, one arm through her coat, trying to shove the other one in too. "We are so, so late!"
"And whose fault is that?" Rory finally steps back, whatever it was between them broken.
"No time to blame me, let's hurry instead. Bye, Jess." She nearly shoves her daughter out the door. He stands there for a few seconds, before heading for the stairs.
"Room service!" The voice is muffled by the door, but it's easy enough to recognize. He opens it, and a blast of noise carries up from the dining room. Words, music, glassware, metal scraping against ceramic.
"I didn't order any." He smirks.
She pushes past him, platter in hand, silver dome on top of it. "It's just that kind of place, we can read your mind." Sets it down on the desk. He waits by the door, unsure of what to do. When she starts rifling through his books, he closes it.
"Sorry about the mess," he says as he sits on the edge of the bed.
"Let me borrow a couple of these and I might forgive you."
"Not the top two."
"Ok." She picks them up and sets them aside, then starts picking through the rest, one at a time, flipping them over to check the back covers. "You're missing the party." She tells him, eyes on the books.
"I signed up for Christmas dinner, not that and Christmas Eve lunch."
"It's not that bad. You might be able to get away with not saying more than three words."
"Three more than I need if I stay up here."
"I can't argue with that math."
"Not that one, it's terrible." He tells her as she tries to add another book to her stack.
"Duly noted." She adds it to her borrowing pile anyway. "My dad's downstairs. And Luke. And mom. It's awkward."
"That why you're here?"
"That and I needed a break from all the talk about over there. You haven't asked about any of it. It's refreshing."
"I read your stuff, I've got some idea."
"I didn't think you'd… I don't know. Be interested in the subject matter?" She suggests half-heartedly. "It's not like I'm writing for the Times either. There's easier to find stuff than mine out there."
"I gotta support the underdog, the Times has enough readers."
"I read your latest book. The one before was better." She tells him, moving the pile of books to the edge of the desk and turning to face him.
"Ouch. Critics liked it."
"It didn't feel like you, that's all. I suppose the better was relative."
"I was going through some things."
"And you had to take it out on the poor book? Shame on you." She laughs, picking up her selection. "I should get back before they start thinking God knows what. Are you sure you don't want to change your mind?"
"I'm good." He looks at the platter she'd brought. "Can't let a perfectly good whatever that is go to waste."
"Couple of sandwiches."
"They might go cold." He smirks.
"I'll get these back to you before you leave." She holds up the books, pushing the door handle down with her elbow.
"Don't worry about it, I've read them."
"Well, in that case, kiss them goodbye."
And with that, she shimmies out of the room.