For the Nights
Summary: Can what started off as an act of rebellion turn into so much more. Rogan AU.

Important Note: Sorry for the long wait. But here it is: Chapter Two. You have to, at the very least, reread the ending to the first chapter, since I rewrote parts of it. This chapter may be confusing without it.

Chapter Two

Coffee. The rich, warm ambrosia was a lifesaver to any Gilmore. It was a well known fact to anyone who knew them. They thrived on it. Coffee helped to solve all their problems. Fights had been reconciled over a steaming cup, frostbites had thawed quickly in its warm embrace, and all-night study sessions had been achieved by drinking copious amounts. Rory mused over the alleged magical ability of her beloved hot liquid, could coffee solve her current predicament? Could it save her? Or was it just childhood hope?

Sighing, Rory looked down at the small, now coffee stained, piece of crumpled paper. She had read its contents over many times. She could easily recite it from memory, although there were not many words, only a few scribbled lines. But those lines said volumes. She took a sip of coffee and reread the note. The words hadn't changed. Reluctantly Rory admitted to herself that coffee was not going to work a miracle and make her problem disappear. Its likely use would be to simply keep her hands occupied.

Despite the liquids questionable lack of potion-like effects, Rory somehow found herself outside in the campus quad. She was able, somehow, to mask most of her terror. She was pale and slightly shaky. Her appearance was similar to how she felt right before she took her SATs.

Although she was outside, she could hardly hear the bustle in the quad. Although she knew the couple sitting at the bench were arguing audibly, she didn't catch a word of it even though she noticed the crowd that had gathered to conspicuously watch.

This had become common for her. She often found herself drifting. Rory was often distracted, for her mind was much to full.

Rory had been like this for days. She had compiled pro-con lists, paced for hours, and spent several sleepless nights agonizing over the note and its implications. She always came to the same conclusion. How could she go through with it and remain her? She couldn't. It went against everything her mother taught her. She wouldn't do it. It would be a disgrace to her mother's memory.

At least that had been her decision until Friday.

Several events occurred consecutively that made that decision void.

Everything changed.

Rory came down to breakfast already dressed in her school uniform. She noticed, but ignored, her grandmother's nod of approval. Apparently it was not proper for a young lady to come down in her pajamas, no matter how tired she is or how early inn the morning breakfast is served (For 6:30 is much too early a time when school starts at 8:30 and she lived a mere five minutes from the school).

"Rory dear," Emily said, rousing Rory slightly. At the head of the table, Richard lowered his newspaper an inch. "Your grandfather and I have been discussing it, and we think you need a car." She smiled expectantly at Rory, but when she did not show the appropriate enthusiasm for the gesture, she continued, though slightly less chipper than before. "Only you need to get to school and functions with something." Richard gave a nod of agreement.

Rory frowned. "I have a car."

Richard "tsked" and raised the newspaper.

Emily sighed, and Rory could tell she was trying not to roll her eyes in exasperation of her granddaughter's density. "An appropriate car," she said, and perhaps in hopes of placating Rory she added somewhat too late, "dear."

Rory had been driving her mother's old Jeep. The beast, as Rory mentally liked to call the vehicle, was beat up and dirty, and often leaked liquids Rory was positive were not supposed to be that colour. Despite the Jeep's disease like excretions, Rory harboured a special place in her heart for it. It had been her mother's after all.

The part of her that loved and pitied her grandmother realized Emily likely did not like to be reminded of her only daughter and their rocky relationship. But the angry and more dominate side of Rory could only believe that Emily was doing this to erase Lorelai and recreate Rory into the Lorelai they had always wished her mother to be. This wasn't merely frustration and hurt that led her to this conclusion. She had overheard Emily telling Richard that she wanted a new family portrait to put over the mantle. The current painting depicted a fifteen year old Lorelai standing, somewhat awkwardly, between her proud parents. It was clear the new portrait would see an uncomfortable Rory between two proud grandparents. Some may see the gesture as sweet, Rory saw it as treason.

When Rory got back from school that day she found Emily in her mother's old bedroom that had already been converted into a preteen's bedroom complete with boy band posters. Needless to say, Rory hated it. She preferred her room in Stars Hollow.

"Really Rory, what is this?" Emil emerged from her closet and held up a pair of old jeans. The legs were frayed and there was a large tear in the knee. "This is not proper attire for a young girl in your position. What would people say if they saw you walking around in these?" Emily looked scandalized. "They'll think you're homeless!"

Rory shrugged. "They're comfortable."

"They have holes," she shrieked sticking her fingers into the tear. "How could your mother let you run around dressed like one of those refugees you see on CNN in those little countries next to Mexico?" Emily turned back into the closet and let out another shriek. "These clothes are completely inappropriate." She suddenly smiled brightly and Rory knew something terrible was about to occur. "I'll have to buy you a new wardrobe! Yes. Pastels for spring..."

That said, Emily waltzed, dazed, from the room. It was Rory's turn to look scandalized. She had a sudden vision of her dressed identical to her grandmother in sweater vests and pearls. Next thing she knew her grandmother would be inducting her into the DAR.

"But I can buy my own clothes," she said, whimpering softly, to an empty room.

She was blind-sighted again that night. The Dugreys came for dinner. The whole affair was awkward and uncomfortable. Emily and Mrs Dugrey did most of the talking. Although Rory didn't bother paying attention she knew the topic was likely the upcoming wedding ("Rory you need to be thinking of these things," Emily chastised her. "The date is approaching fast!"). She kept her eyes focused on her dinner, that is, until Emily turned and looked at her expectantly with a wide smile on lips.

"What?"

Emily's face tightened, and Rory knew she was holding back a comment. "Tristan has something for you, isn't that nice?" Emily said through slightly gritted teeth, her eyes imploring her to behave - or else. Rory could just hear what her grandmother was attempting to telepathically convey to her "Do not embarrass me". Emil turned to Dugrey. "Why don't you take Rory out onto the patio, dear, its rather warm out tonight?"

Rory stiffened. She had made it her top priority not to be alone, even for a moment, with Tristan Dugrey - especially since the incident in the hallway. It turned out this wasn't as hard as she first thought it would be, for Dugrey seemed to be avoiding her presence as well, which was all the better for her. Rory had the feeling Paris was responsible for his absence.

Outside the atmosphere was strained. Neither spoke. Neither looked at the other. But the two knew that Emily and Mrs Dugrey were peeping from behind the curtains. Suddenly the garden lights began to glow. Rory couldn't resist the eye roll, the things her grandmother thought were romantic… She snorted.

Dugrey looked round at her noise as though only now noticing her presence. "Right," he seemed to mumble to himself. "I'm supposed to properly propose," he said, this time louder so she could hear, and nodded toward the house.

"I'd never accept."

He smiled, somewhat ruefully it seemed for a moment, but the next he was smirking unrepentantly. "You've no choice."

With a roll of the eyes and a shrug, he deliberately dropped to a kneel in front of her. He held out an opened ring box. "Well," he said when she did nothing. "Take it."

His proposal was not what her grandmother would have termed "proper", but from the space between the curtains that Emily was spying behind, it may as well have been.

Rory was disappointed. Not only in the groom, but in his conveyance. When her mother had been proposed to it had entailed a thousand yellow daisies, while hers was impatient and reluctant.

The ring was worse. It was oversized, the diamond blinding. Her grandmother was insane to think she would actually put that ring on in public. Damned if it was only proper. She would not wear it. The ring was a billboard advertisement for what her life was about to become. Empty, but filled with shiny, expensive things.

With another eye roll, Dugrey slipped the ring onto her finger. The ring had barely any weight, but her hand suddenly felt overwhelmingly heavy.

Rory was still staring woefully at the ring when she decided to call him. This decision ultimately led to her current position on the note. Dean Forester was familiar. He was home. Naively, deep down she though of him as a last hope. And if Rory wanted to be technical, he was still her boyfriend though they hadn't spoken since she moved to Hartford.

He took a long time to answer. A clue she missed. She'd nearly given up when he finally picked up on the sixth ring. His greeting was both rough and strained, but she would only realize that later.

Suppressing a sob, Rory whispered hoarsely, "I need you."

A moment ticked by. Then two. "Right," he said calmly. Politely. But she missed that too. Thats why she gasped loudly, her heart plummeted, and she suddenly felt like vomited the little supper she consumed, when he said, "I hear congratulations are in order."

Then it happened. Her world split in two. Her ties to her old, happier life, were severed. Just like that. Who did she have left?

Through her terror and her sobs, she managed, "how?"

He laughed bitterly. Cold. "Taylor gets the New York Times delivered."

Oh. She knew that. "Oh," she said. What else could she?

"So. Congratulations."

"Dean, I…"

"Save it Rory," he said bitingly. "I let you have your space after Lorelai died. Then you go find comfort in the arms of the accountant? Why are you calling? Did you two have a fight? Or did he already get bored?"

No other words came to her. She just cried. Dean stayed on the line for a few more minutes. She heard a soft, almost tearful, "Goodbye Rory," then the dial tone.

He was gone.

Emily's actions, whether knowingly or not, were destroying the life Rory had always held so dear. Her independence, her friends, control, and - as her mother would no doubt agree - her soul.

She needed to control at least one aspect of her life. And there was only one thing she could think to do. It may be irrational, but the overwhelming chaos her life had turned into was scarier.

She retrieved the note from the front pocket of her bag where she had stashed it.

Now, here she was.

Two boys were walking several feet in front of her – although, perhaps "boys" wasn't the right word to describe them. They were several years older than she was – twenty, maybe twenty-one. They were at the age her grandmother would describe as "young men" having not quite reached the older generation's standards of what true men are. One of them was tall, but walked with an exaggerated slouch as though he were having trouble staying awake. The other was shorter, but held himself tall – he jutted out his chin in a superior manner. It was hard to tell whether this was from arrogance or confidence, or both.

Under normal circumstances, Rory would not have looked twice at the frat boys, but then she heard a snippet of their conversation. She stayed unnoticeably close.

"Let me get this straight," the taller of the two boys, drawled. He had an Australian accent that accentuated his tiredness. It was thick, slow, but Rory couldn't tell if he was purposely exaggerating his accent, either to avoid being asked if he were British or to flaunt his unusual heritage. "Huntz is going to bed some girl he has never met, so that she will go home to her betrothed as used goods?"

"So it seems," the shorter boy said sounding rather bored with the conversation. His head followed a blonde in a short skirt. He licked his lips in anticipation, a hunger brewed in his eyes; Rory rolled her own in disgust.

"There must be something seriously wrong with her, then." The Australian suddenly sounded more awake by the excitement of the possibilities. He seemed to image several amusing circumstance, for a smirk appeared on his face.

"Like what?" the shorter boy pondered, he too smirked, though rather wickedly. "She was in a horrible life altering accident and now looks more gruesome than Mr Hyde?" he offered crudely, raising his eyebrows.

The Australian snickered. "Poor Huntz. Maybe she'll wear a bag over her head for the big night." He smiled widely, revealing a set of perfectly straight white teeth that have yet to be found in nature.

The other boy shook his head, but Rory could see he had an amused expression flitting across his features as he contemplated the possibility more thoroughly. "Huntz will be disappointed."

They had reached a large building, she knew housed a dormitory. She watched as the two boys stepped in through the door. The Australian looked back as he went in catching sight of her. He winked. "All right, love?"

This was it. Her last chance to back out.

Suddenly as a bride gripped with cold feet, she fearfully wondered, What if she went through with this and then discovered a way out of this mess?

Her eyes widened. Her breathing quickened.

It was decided. She wouldn't do it. She turned to leave.

Ah, her cynical side questioned, taking on a philosophical tone, but what if she doesn't do it and she never finds a way out of the labyrinth that had become her life?

What would become of her then?

To sleep perchance to dream, she quoted silently to herself, ay, there's the rub.

In a manner that was reminiscent of Emily Gilmore, Rory squared her shoulders with determination and marched into the building.

The door she came to a stop in front of was of plain wood - standard issue. She glance unnecessarily at the scrap of paper. She already knew she was in the right place.

Logan Huntzberger. Suite 12. Branford Hall. Yale University. 555-6397.

She could do this. Couldn't she?