a/n: Mostly I loved the revival. Now my head and need to write fanfic is exploding, though. There will probably be several better examples of this, but this one is my take. I'm not sure how many parts yet. The title is taken from 'Empire Builder', a lovely and emotionally appropriate song by Laura Gibson.

disclaimer: I don't own Gilmore Girls or Netflix or anything else, really. No infringement is intended and no profit will be made. I'm mostly running in the negative at this point anyway so even if there was any made, it wouldn't be worth your time to sue me.

chapter 1: we are not alone and we are more alone than we've ever been

It was always easy to put a happy face on basically anything when he was still drunk and he was with Colin, Finn, and even (begrudgingly) Robert. He'd gotten used to it over time, being the life of the party. Or, if not, at least being part of the party. The problem was, in his years living in London, he'd also accidentally mastered the art of dropping that façade during a long flight. By the time he made it home, he probably looked as wrecked as he felt.

There was something about Rory Gilmore he'd never been able to let go. Obviously. They had been way too young for the things life had thrown at them when it had – but they had persevered. His feelings for her were the longest-running thing in his life at this point. Eventually, they weren't too young for it all anymore. That time had passed, but she hadn't seemed ready to settle. It was something he had to do. He wasn't going to be allowed to just wait for her and, really, he wanted more from life than a few days here and there when someone blew into town. She'd managed to provide more and less, at intervals, but her inconsistency was the only steady thing about her. There was a thin thread of contact. She turned to him and he liked it, but you know, eventually, that's not a relationship or a lifestyle. Life had taken over, he'd made choices, and their agreement had been the only way he could keep her in his life. He did it, he knows he did it, and he would do it again. He wouldn't trade all the time he's spent with her for anything.

He knows Odette will be home when he gets there. That's the part and parcel of being engaged to him and raised in society. Of all the things he's on the hook for, he knows that's the most deceiving thing. He's been playing two sides of a coin for too long, living a public life and private life all at once. He wouldn't be shocked if she had done the same thing, at least before she moved in, but now… he almost wants to catch her so he'll be off the hook. How shitty does that make him? He doesn't want her to see him like this, a little messed up over another woman. Plus, it would certainly free him up to go back to Connecticut, at least in a romantic sense. Either way, he can't really manage to re-coat himself in the easy going acceptance of the future laid out before him now. It's one without the right amount of color. It isn't the way he wants his world to look and he's having a hell of a time grasping the very legitimate goodbyes they said.

And hey, he's not an idiot. It's too little, too late. He can't stop the things he's set in motion now without a really good reason to do it. He's been waiting for a long time, years even, and he's never been handed a reason. For as much of a gambler as he was, he's become an investor now. He'd thought what he was putting into a college relationship, the nickels and dimes and quarters of patience and space while she figured herself out, he'd thought it would add up to something. Instead, he's on a transatlantic flight with a pocket full of change (and keys) and a heart full of disappointment. He's heading home to another woman and she's… he doesn't know. He doesn't think she does either.

She has this way of falling apart completely and rebuilding herself and he wants to watch. He wants to be a part of it.

He wants her to let him be a part of it.

But he can't bring himself to beg. He doesn't know how to do this, never has when it comes to her. Girls like Odette are easy; they expect a setup, a date, then another date, and a succession of time before a kiss, and then you sleep together, and then talk about marriage. Then there's a prenup, a proposal, an engagement party… the rules are set. He can do those. Contrary to years of headmasters and deans saying otherwise, he can follow rules. He can tie his tie, and wear two shoes that match, and do the dances. It's always been a little more fun when there's a bit of a mess, though. It's always been a little more fun when there's a Gilmore involved.

One in particular.

(He doesn't have the hots for Lorelai or anything. Just a healthy appreciation for her daughter – and a strong belief she's as much different from Rory as she is like her.)

He's still a little stunned that won't be the case for him anymore, still wishing he could find a time machine or the perfect words or something. He's still wishing he had the courage to speak up, to put himself out there and take a risk. He just doesn't know how receptive she would be and that's a key piece of information. He needs to have at least a rough idea what the return on the investment would be. Given the number of times she's called and hung up lately, the number of times she's tried to stop what they were doing or break it off or cancelled plans doesn't give him a lot of faith. What he has might not be the same, nowhere near as interesting or fun, but he knows what he's getting in return. It's not a bad deal by any means.

It's just also not his first choice.

She's never really given him the choice. If she did, she'd be it. He knows it and he thinks she knows it, too.

(This is going to kill him, at least on the inside.)

This wasn't the plan. She knows that and she's sure he knows it, too. Well… wherever he is while he's off getting married. Actually, she knows where he is. That has never, not once been the problem. There have been plenty of problems over the course of their long history, some his and some hers, but not knowing where someone is wasn't the issue. Even if a lot of their arrangement was when we're together, we're together.

She's taking stock and realizing just how much of that was bullshit all along.

By taking stock, she means she's staring at a pro/con list that hasn't changed in about four hours even though she's got the stunning visual of two pink lines that she swears are burned into her retinas moving every time she blinks.

Her mom was surprisingly unhelpful, but Rory has decided to cut her some slack. After years of I've got this under control, there was a night that apparently it wasn't under control. That's not entirely surprising considering she was just drunk enough to not know they were in New Hampshire until someone told her.

As is always the case with them, things went so fast and are a little blurry, a little hazy, and thinking on it makes her dizzy. If she had to place bets, she'd lay the blame at an even 50/50. It's a little disconcerting not to know exactly. Her mom knows exactly and her mom was a lot younger and a lot less experienced.

At any rate, that isn't the subject matter of the pro/con list. To tell or not to tell, that is the question. It's been radio silence from him since New Hampshire, which is what she told him would be the case. She thought about sharing the 'first three chapters' accomplishment, but she didn't want to hear anything about his life. That seems like a solid reason not to call. It's a little painful to watch everything slow down and yet be so unable to stop the train wreck. It was all self-preservation. Now, though, everything has flipped on its head and she can't decide which way is 'pro' and which way is 'con.'

Lane works through about four 'oh boys' before she she breathes, looks at Rory, and bypasses the obvious what would Lorelai Gilmore do? joke. It lost some of its shine anyway when her mom decided the hyphenate her last name, thus breaking the joy of their names being mostly the same.

"I'm not the person you should be asking this stuff," Lane finally manages. To her credit, she turns the white phone – the only one, now – off before she hands it over. The stress relief of no accidental dialing is a little too cutesy and acute. "I know you're trying to quit him, but this overrides that."

"I'm glad you didn't say 'trumps,' because I'll probably never look at that word the same way again," Rory jokes, trying to deflect even more. She stares at her phone and wonders if she's somehow managing to dial across the pond through the black screen.

"You will be great. You've got too many good examples around you not to be," Lane points out. "But leave it up to him whether you're going it alone or not."

She's still staring at her phone as she listens to Lane's comfort and council. She's infinitely glad her crazy life and breakneck pace have slowed and have led her back home for all of this. She honestly can't imagine Paris being anything but tough love, baby. That's fine and well, and has served her at some point during all her wandering, but it isn't what she needs right now. What she needs is her oldest friend. She thanks whatever lucky stars she's got that she has what she needs while she makes impossible decisions.

He's bored with this. It's absolutely not the first time he's thought as much, either.

He isn't really the most romantic guy and he knows that. Sure, he can plan rooftop surprise dinners and eyeball a girl's gown size to provide her with a ballgown she isn't expecting, but that's really just contingencies more than anything else. He's never been the sort of person who spent time in abstract thought about a girl he liked or enjoyed the company of. Even with Rory, anything he did was an elaborate ruse that just allowed him to spend time near her. He was just as okay with sleeping in, waking up in the same bed and pretending they were going to go anywhere else that morning. Still, he doesn't dress things up in his mind, make them more than they are, or daydream fantastical scenarios. He's not that romantic. Making marriage sound like a business deal, thanks to hammering out a prenup with a team of attorneys and all four of their parents present – it's still almost depressing. And it's boring. It sucks the fun right out of it.

So he's been staring out the window, refusing to engage really, and he just generally doesn't give a fuck. He doesn't want to be here and it shows.

When they get to the section on deal breakers, he sits up and pays attention. It's just in time to see the knowing look from Odette as they discuss whether or not infidelity is, in fact, a dealbreaker. If he weren't so good at playing things off, turning them into a little bit of a joke proportional to their amount of gravity, he'd loop his finger through where his tie is secured around his neck. He'd show some sort of tell. He keeps his hands in his lap and his eyes on hers.

"That won't be an issue," he cuts in quietly.

Not because he's a good person. Not because he doesn't want to be like his father.

Because there's only one person in the world he wants like that and she doesn't want him back. So it doesn't matter anymore. He's settling and he knows it as he makes the promise. He wishes maybe he were a little braver. For the right girl, he would be. He could be.

He won't.

They agree that illegitimate children are the dealbreaker, the point at which all bets are off. Babies are the only real threat to the life he's supposed to want. If he's honest, he isn't sure he wants those anyway. He loves being an uncle, but that might be as far as he wants to take it. It's kind of strange to realize he hasn't made a firm decision on that as he's sitting at a table with lawyers talking about property, houses, cars, servants, family holidays, and what percentage of what goes to whom.

All he knows is he doesn't want this. Well, that's not strictly true. He knows what he wants, too, he just can't have it. It has a strange way of throwing what he does have into question. All he can do is look out the window, keep one ear on the promise being made in his name to buy a new car once a year or something, and sigh.

Rory isn't exactly a gun-toting Boy Scout. She likes to be well-armed for any situation, but she does that with facts and sensible shoes and sexy underwear. She doesn't do well with being knocked off-balance because she'd rather be prepared.

Somehow in the last six weeks, after seeking counsel from her mother and her best friend, she's wound up feeling supported and somehow less than prepared for this very moment. She's been too distracted to work on the book. Since her grandmother sold the house, and she's without that particular emotional conduit unless she puts on her people skills and hope the new occupants have a sense of humor and and affinity for cigars, she's been a bit slower with the process. The invitation to Nantucket was both appreciated and nerve-wracking, knowing she'd have news to bear. Writing with the thankfully not life-sized portrait of Richard looking on has the potential to be inspirational. Telling her grandmother she's thirty-two, out of a solid job, and pregnant – that's less inspirational and more terrifying. They haven't tackled sexual subjects since she was exiled from the poolhouse into the main house when she was on college sabbatical, and even then it wasn't exactly discussed. It was more of a stare over breakfast, an "I know you know I know" stare that was more uncomfortable than the actual sex talk had ever been. She doesn't necessarily want to get into the details now, either, but she can't pretend she doesn't know who the father is. Questionable one-time sex with a Wookie aside, she's not that slutty. There's no way Emily Gilmore would buy that she was.

It goes better than she thought it would, though Emily points out his wedding is coming up and she probably should at least tell him before that date. Although she's dropped out of Hartford society since Richard's death, some things had slipped through the cracks as Emily sold the house and moved. One of them was the 'save the date' for a springtime Paris wedding with a familiar name, and Emily's steel trap of a mind remembered at least that much in spite of not paying attention.

(Rory always thought the genetic components of her intellect came from her grandfather. She wasn't entirely right, she learns during the trip. Grandma is shrewd and has an incredibly long memory, even when she isn't trying to find things to use against people.)

There is nothing about freezing her ass off, overlooking the Nantucket sound from a weather-beaten deck on the back of a beautiful house she otherwise has to herself, that makes her feel prepared or safe to impart information. She finds herself wishing she could have a glass of Afternoon Sherry with her grandmother before she places the call, but she can't.

She stares at her phone for a long time, at the shape of it resting against her lap. He's never not answered when she called. There's something in that. No matter how upside down he was, when he was running away after a bad business deal or promising to marry someone who wasn't her – he's always answered her call. Or he's called her back with an explanation in a reasonable amount of time. No matter what time of day she finally gets up the guts to reach out, no matter how they left things, he'll answer. She knows it. She just doesn't know what to do with it because then she'll have to talk to him.

Christopher gave her a lot to think about, and she didn't tell her grandmother or her mother about that conversation. His steady reassurance that everything had worked out as it should was belied a little by the desperation of the reassurance that he loves her. While he hadn't known how to deal with an unplanned baby, or her emotional tornado of a mother, when he was just sixteen, he hadn't deserved to be unilaterally removed from the entire process the way he was. He hadn't necessarily wanted that and, if she was reaching, she thought maybe she'd seen some residual heartbreak there, too. How would their lives have been different if he'd been allowed a choice, been allowed to decide exactly what his role would be?

Could she bear to run into Logan at some point down the road, then see and hear all that in his voice? Could she really feed the insecure monster that lay inside him, only occasionally rearing its head when he was in the company of precious few, that sounded like Mitchum and told him he'd never be good enough for anything he was handed? That's what cutting him out would do. That was what had been done to her own father by her mother's independence and stubbornness. Would she repeat the cycle?

She isn't prepared to answer that question. She isn't prepared to call or to have him answer. Even a stunning view of calming water can't help her or push her, so she sits there and looks at the shape of everything and wondering how it's possible it looks so different now. Everything does. It'll never be the same again.