A/N: I'm sure the readers of my tower prep stories are pretty upset with me but I can't help it I'm in love with this idea. Thanks again to Iscah, still my hero, I always look forward to reading your emails. They brighten up my day. So this ones a little shorter but it ended naturally and who was I to push it. Hope you enjoy

Den Mother: 143 year old scotch

Rory woke up around two in the morning, her face clammy and her pillow damp. She rolled away from the now soggy pillow, and with her head hanging off of the bed, watched how the lights from the street hit the boxes that lined the wall.

Bitch, slut, whore, neglectful, unfeeling, lying, cruel

The boxes screamed at her in Elliot's voice.

She had been spending a lot of late nights at the office, she had cancelled their vacation together in order to work on the Prescott scandal. Looking back she had done that a lot, pushed him aside for her job. She had just thought she had met the perfect person for her, someone who didn't mind taking a back seat to her career every once an a while. Perhaps she had shoved Elliot in the backseat too often, left him alone one too many times.

Lying, neglectful slut.

Had she ever lied to him? Yes.

About coming home early, about where she was going, about who she was with - she hadn't been cheating on him, she had just been protecting her story.

It was becoming painfully clear, looking at those harsh but meticulously packed boxes, that she had been lying and neglectful, and probably unfeeling. A slut, however, was incorrect. She hadn't been with anyone but Elliot since they had gotten together three years ago. But, it didn't take a rocket scientist to see how he had jumped to that conclusion.

Rory groaned and pulled herself out of bed. She needed a drink.

She leaned out the door and listened for any signs of life. The last thing she needed was a confrontation with Colin and his sharp tongue, or for Finn to see she had been crying and try to comfort her in what would, no doubt, be a completely carnal fashion. Hearing nothing, she made her way to the kitchen and mimicking what she had seen Colin do hours earlier. She obtained a drink.

She sat on the counter with a bottle of what was no doubt an incredibly expensive bottle of scotch, and tried to drown out the boxes taunting.

An hour of blaming herself and wallowing in self pity later, she whispered into the night.

"I am a lying, neglectful slut..." She slammed back her drink and refilled her glass.

"So the boxes were right?" The voice was clear and deep and crisp, and could belong to no one other than Colin. She was amazed that his voice could still sound so sharp and well formed at three in the morning.

Colin leaned against the counter beside her and took the bottle of scotch from her. He looked down at it, and back at her.

"Are you at least enjoying my 143 year old scotch?" She was surprised to hear more amusement than annoyance in his voice.

"Yes." She slammed the drink and held out her glass in hopes of a refill.

Colin sighed and refilled her glass. She was surprised and incredibly happy until he pulled the glass from her grasp and drank it himself. He placed the bottle back in its home and turned to look at her. He leaned causally against the opposite counter, and a light from behind her caused his eyes to flash.

"So, what's wrong Gilmore?"

"Finn told you," She paused dramatically before continuing in a ridiculous and terrible Australian accent, "I was kicked out of my flat." She smirked, watching Colin try to smother his laughter

"Sure, sure, but why?"

"You read those boxes!" She swept her arm angrily in the direction of her room, "I'm a lying, neglectful slut; a cold, unfeeling whore; a self-involved, strumpet; a vain..." Her voice hitched and her body slumped over, unable to finish listing the boxes. She never should have dated a writer. They were too creative in their insults; too vicious in their cruelty. Him calling her cruel - that was the pot calling the kettle black.

"I read the boxes." Colin moved closer to her, his voice soft and almost sad. "that guy is an idiot Rory. You are not any of those things."

"Oh, but I am." She looked up, her voice shockingly bitter, "I am neglectful. I put my work ahead of him all the time. I cared more about a byline than him. He was right to throw me out."

The pain must have flashed across her face, because Colin closed the small distance between them and brushed the hair out of her face. The gesture was soft and shockingly intimate.

"Shh," he whispered softly, and handed her back her glass, trying to mend her broken heart with soft hands and expensive scotch. "His loss."

"Why didn't he just say something..." She emptied the glass and set it on the counter next to her. She rubbed at her once again crying eyes, turning away from Colin, ashamed.

Colin put a hand on her shoulder and squeezed it softly. "Lets get you to bed..."

She nodded and slipped off the counter...and slid into a heap on the floor.

"That's not your bed, Gilmore," Colin told her softly, leaning down. "Come on." He scooped her easily off the floor and started down the hall with her in his arms.

When they got to the door to Rory's room, she suddenly came back to life, "No!" She put her hands against the door frame to stop Colin from crossing the threshold.

"What's the matter? This is your room."

"The boxes are taunting me."

"I assure you, they are not."

"They sit there at the edges of the room, and they mock me and insult me. Rory can't love anyone or anything but her job..." When Colin looked down at her, she was crying again.

Sighing, he turned away from her room and walked toward his own. The room was large and cold, and the walls, lined with books.

Colin put Rory gently into the bed, "Do you feel sick?"

Rory shook her head, but immediately it felt like it had been a bad idea. The formerly stable room had gone into a tailspin behind Colin. The tall, half-dressed boy pulled a garbage bin, seemingly out of thin air, and placed it close to the bed, "Just in case." He straightened up and disappeared from her view.

"Thank you," she mumbled, before finally drifting off again.

An alarm woke her up.

She slammed a hand down on it. "Elliot it's time to..." She turned to look at the rest of the bed. It was empty.

This wasn't her bed. This wasn't her apartment. This wasn't even her part of town.

Everything around her right now was Colin's. She saw snapshots of last night in her head; the half empty bottle of 143 year old scotch, the flash in Colin's eyes, the soft way he had spoken to her, the way he had carried her to his bed. It would have been romantic if he hadn't been Colin and she hadn't been drowning her sorrows.

Her mouth was that desert-dry that could only be accomplished from a night of hard drinking and no hydration. Grimacing, she looked over the edge of the bed into the garbage Colin had pulled close to her. Apparently, it hadn't been close enough.

She rolled away from the mess and dragged herself out of Colin's room.

When Rory opened the door to 'her' room, she found Colin asleep on top of the covers, a half a glass of scotch on the bedside table, and no insulting boxes.

She stood in the doorway, her heart swelling with the thought that he had spent all night emptying boxes.

"He woke me up in the middle of the night to unpack your room." Finn spoke quietly, slinging his arm around Rory's shoulders. His face was desperately close to hers. She turned to look into his tired green eyes, still sparkling with a childlike joy she thought would never truly die.

"He woke you up? Do you guys ever sleep a full night?"

Finn straightened up and walked toward the kitchen,"Not if we can help it, love."

Rory watched Colin shift in his sleep, wondering if he had always been kind, but she had been too distracted by his sharp words and ridiculous lifestyle to notice.