Disclaimer: All characters and situations from Gilmore Girls are properties of Amy Sherman-Palladino, Dorothy Parker Drank Here Productions and Hofflund/Polone in association with Warner Bros. Television. No copyright infringement intended.

Time Setting: Mid-Season 02. About two hours before Luke & Co. leave for the Bracebridge Dinner. One-shot.

A/N: This was written for avaleighfitzgerald's Literati-Challenge: "Rory's has a 'phone conversation with Lane. Jess overhears."

Also, please keep in mind that this is Jess telling the story. Do not expect him to be nice to Dean. He's highly biased. Not intended as a character bashing!

This story contains spoilers for "The Bracebridge Dinner". Please turn around if you don't want to be spoiled.

And finally, I'd like to thank all of you who were so kind and reviewed "That Family Thing". You have no idea what you've set in motion. It's like I'm on a creative rush. Thank you all so very much.

He Said, She Said

oOo

"- and then I said 'No Liz, the boy stays here. I insist.'"

Ladies and gentlemen? Allow me to introduce you to my uncle. Luke Danes. He owns the diner in this self-absorbed little suburb of hell. He called it "Luke's Diner" in a flash of inspiration, no doubt. The man is a creative genius.

He's been trying to convince me for the last ten minutes that Liz – oh, sorry, I guess I should call her "mom" because we're all so disgustingly affectionate over here – anyway, that Liz-mom wants nothing more than to spend the holidays with her no-good delinquent son she was so eager to send into the pits of a small town hell. The same hell, I may add, that she was so quick to run away from herself. You can tell how much that woman loves me, can't you? Anyway –

"Jess?"

Oh, hell. The good Samaritan is calling upon me again and, needless to say, I have no clue what he's talking about. Better go with the eloquent answer then.

"Huh," I say. You can't go wrong with that one. I learned that from personal experience and voilà! - he's happy. People tend to pick the answer they like the best when you let them, so, in a way, he should really be grateful I'm offering this opportunity to him. Goodness knows what would happen if someone would have to bother listening. Take this situation, for instance. Luke seems pleased with himself now that he's convinced himself that he has done his best to spare my fragile feelings (I wonder why he bothers, it's not like I don't know that I'm a nuisance to him) and now he can go off feeling self-satisfied and start boasting that he's discovered the secret of parenting or other such rubbish.

Me? I'm off spending some quality time with either Mr. Dickens, Mr. Defoe if I'm in some dire need of escapism or – to complete the D-theme – I might even lend Mr. Doyle my ear for a couple of hours because, you know, books you can rely on. People? Not so much. No matter how much they pretend otherwise.

This might be part of why it takes my brain some time to catch up with Saint Luke's last words.

"-expect you to be ready at seven," he says, looking excited. "And bring your pajamas or whatever it is you kids call it these days."

Huh?

"Huh?" I reply eloquently and Luke sighs, his shoulders drooping just a tiny bit in disappointment. Yes, I do notice these things. And I don't care. Honestly. Better to disillusion the man now before he puts too many hopes in me. Not that he does, of course. And not that I care.

I guess at this point it's plain to see why I prefer books to people. No hopes, no expectations, no disappointments. No ap-pointments, either, as it turns out and I nod automatically, as Luke rattles off his story a second time. Some fancy dinner at the Inn, Lorelai is behind it (of course she is – otherwise Luke wouldn't have even considered attending this farce) be there at seven. By now the conversation has depressed me to a point where I'm reaching for Dostoevsky, grunt out a hasty excuse for a good-bye, don't count on me, have a nice life but leave me the hell alone and flee our luxurious apartment.

oOo

Once outside, I breathe in the sweet, healthy air of Stars Hollow and almost gag. Have you ever gotten dizzy from too much clean air? It's horrible, I'm telling you. It hits you over the head and leaves your lungs with an overdose of oxygen that goes straight to your head, leaving you disoriented and slightly nauseous.

Between the two of us – I've been looking forward to get out of here for a few days. Smell some real, smog-filled air for once. Get a taste of the hectic of the city and perhaps a hot dog from that stand I love so much. But no, Liz – I'm not around Luke anymore, so I'm allowed to think of her as "Liz" again – didn't call.

Once that would have hurt me but now…well, now it still does. Hastily, I look down at my book and gratefully think that Fyodor's characters are in an even greater mess than I am and that cheers me up slightly. That's how it's always been – I spend the holidays with my friends: Ernest Hemingway, Jack London, Jonathan Swift etc. and Liz spends them with her friends: Jim Bean, Jack Daniels etc.

So by now I'm perfectly happy to retreat to my park bench, lose myself in the troubles of other people and wallow a bit in self-pity before I "accidentally" forget to come home in time. Luke will be livid (or even better: gone) and will be spared the annoying spectacle of watching the townsfolk make fools of themselves. Of course I do admit that if I weren't trapped among the cretins they'd provide a lot of brilliant material. Perhaps I'll write a book about it some day. Some day when I'm far far away from here.

Thus having distracted myself I find my bench and slump down on it in my usual position: one leg dangling down, the other on the seat so I can prop the back of my book against it and start reading. Seriously. I'm reading. I'm not thinking how my own mother could at least have had the decency to pick up the damn phone and call. She could have lied, she could have told me she broke her leg and can't take me but she didn't even call! How pathetic is that? How pathetic is it that part of me is still waiting for her to call?

I bite my bottom lip, blink against the wetness in my eyes and thanked every deity I can think of that I'm hidden by the bushes. Yes, I know crying is natural and all that but keep in mind that I'm a teenaged boy and cannot be seen crying in public. It would ruin my bad-boy image and goodness knows what would happen if people were forced to re-think their picture of me. Not wanting to confront them with the need to think outside their prejudiced little points of views, I gallantly retreat into the furthest part of the bench and sniffle. I do not cry openly. I sniffle. I do have my pride, thank you very much.

Now as I'm getting some quality sniffling done some moron suddenly decides that it's a smart idea to halt on the other side of "my" bush. I freeze in mid-sniffle. They can't see me and I can't see them but I-

Whoa. Out of all the people to come along why did it have to be her? My Lady Rowena, my Constance, my Rosalind, my – let's not get carried away here. Suffice to say that I…she's ok to be around. Quite frankly, under normal circumstances I wouldn't mind being around her at all. Especially if we're close. Very close.

She giggles and a shiver runs down my spine, my temporary misery forgotten. Who cares about Liz when Rory is around? She has those incredibly blue eyes and she actually read all those books she keeps piled up in her room. That's amazing. Beyond amazing, considering most people I met collected books – if they did at all – and never read more than the titles. Rory? She puts me to shame and I love every second of it.

Rory giggles again and goodness, my knees go weak at the sound. "Lane!" she gasps out, half-amused half-shocked. Lane, my dear readers, is her hyper-active Korean side-kick. Who, incidentally, seems to hate my guts for some unfathomable reason. Anyway, back to Rory who is getting slightly uncomfortable by the sounds of it and answers the phone (by now I figured out that she's on her own because trust me, if Lane were there, you'd see her).

"No, no, I don't," Rory starts and I smile. Go on talking, I think. Please. And she does.

"Well, yes," she silently admits and I strain my ears to hear her. I know I shouldn't but then again? I'm a bad boy. I've got an image to uphold.

"His lips," she says and my smile drops. Dean. She's talking about the bane of my existence. The one thing standing between me and the achievement of my dreams – her boyfriend. Now by all means, I'd love to hate his guts and I really do give my best to loathe him but Mr. Perfect Boy-Friend is being just too fair and noble for his own good and that regularly sets me off. Why can't he have some faults? It's like he descended from a television commercial or something. He's too nice. Too perfect. I spend the next minutes trying to convince myself that Dean is an alien and about to combust any moment now. But even that doesn't help me over the shock when Rory continues.

"And his hands." Ugh.I do not want to think about Dean's hands and I most certainly don't want Rory to think about his hands.

"I love it when a man has nice hands," Rory adds, making me wince and look for an escape route but it's too late. If I get up now she'll notice me and she'll know I've overheard and she'll kill me. Yes, she will. She may be small and cute but I've seen her when she thought there was no more coffee and let me tell you: this girl is vicious. And sexy. And thinking about alien-Dean's hands. I shudder and pull a face in disgust. 'Why me?' I whimper in the back of my mind but Rory keeps it coming.

She laughs softly. "But if I had to choose it would be his lips. No seriously, Lane, have you ever taken a good look at them?" Rory pauses and I presume Lane gives her a piece of mind. You go girl, I cheer silently. Tell her off! Rory, however, is intent on defending him and prolonging my torture. "Yes, I know," she insists, "But I happen to like that little quirk in his lip. It makes him-" she pauses, breathless. "Sexy."

I snort derisively and for a moment Rory's conversation comes to an abrupt halt and I'm afraid she caught me. But she goes on and I find myself listening in with morbid fascination.

"No, nothing," she assures Lane before continuing. "Well, I hope he'll come. I know I…Lane, I just want to see him, ok? You asked and even though I said that this is not a topic I'm comfortable discussing it was you who pressed on. I happen to think he looks sexy."

'But he's an alien!' I want to shout but some mix of shock and a rudimentary sense of self-preservation keep me rooted to the spot. There is no way in hell I'm going to attend Luke's little party after hearing that. I so don't want to witness Rory finding Dean attractive. After all, my ego can take only so many blows.

"Yes, his voice, too." Rory adds and I'm getting nervous. I don't want to hear this. Someone make her stop! Please! And somehow, somewhere someone seems to hear my plea.

"Lane, I've got to go," she says and I breathe a sigh of relief. A very quiet sigh.

"Oh goodness, Lane!" Oh no! "He reads, ok? He likes to read. He's probably read even more books that I have!"

My eyebrows shoot up. Dean reads? Dean reads? I didn't know he was capable of doing that.

In the meanwhile I can hear Rory getting restless. She's either late for some school-related appointment or she needs her caffeine-fix. For a moment I'm frightened how well I know her mannerisms as she cuts Lane off impatiently.

"Will you leave me alone if I say it?" 'No! Don't do it!', my mind screams but Rory remains oblivious. "Fine," she huffs and a tiny whimper escapes my lips. No. Nonononono. I don't want to hear it.

"I, Rory," she starts and I bite my bottom lip to keep myself from protesting. "I, Rory, think that Jess Mariano is sexy and intelligent."

For a moment there's a ringing sound in my ears, my eyes go wide and my jaw unhinges itself and hits the ground. She…what?!?

"I've got to go now, Lane," Rory says and this time it's definitely the shock that keeps me rooted to the spot. "See you at the dinner. Yes, Bracebridge, cute name, isn't it?" She pauses and I can hear my heart beat so loud that I'm convinced that even a deaf man in Timbuktu can hear it. Fortunately, Rory is not a deaf man in Timbuktu. "Bye," she says and leaves and I slowly close my mouth again.

As my lips turn up to form the world's greatest smile, my gaze hits the watch on my wrist and I jump up form my bench. I've got to get back to Luke's. There's a dinner we need to get ready for and I don't want to miss it for anything in the world.