Disclaimer: I noticed something funny: This all belongs to Amy-Sherman Palladino and the WB and all that, but WB can also stand for writer's block...how weird.

Author's Note: Argh. I don't know what I think of this chapter. I just couldn't get it to do what I wanted, so I decided to make it short and add another chapter soon.

Dedication: To Deeta, who is a very loyal reader. Thanks for all the encouragement!

Chapter Three: A Meeting of Memory

There are times when we must look at ourselves and realize exactly how far we have come; how different our lives are than the ones we expected to live. I used to have so many dreams, but somehow, I forgot them. Not forgot exactly, but rather, ceased to dream them. The things I wanted seem so...unimportant now. We can't understand what it is like to be older when we are young. In the same way, we can't remember what it is like to be young, when we are old.

* * *

The silence, she notices, seems suddenly louder. She feels it crashing over her, breaking down upon her head. She is going to drown in it. She hears herself shout, but her lips do not move. So she stands still, staring at him, willing herself to be calm.

It is a scene common enough to any bar or club, two seeming strangers, eyes locked upon each other, and a sad looking man, slouched on a barstool between them; except that, as the seconds tick past, neither speaks nor moves.

Then, the sad man on the barstool gives a sigh, and squints up at the woman standing next to him. His back goes rigid suddenly, and he attempts to sit up straight.

"Sweetheart?" inquires the man, incredulous.

Her gaze drops, from the man she has been staring at, to the man who has just spoken.

"Yes, it's me." She speaks quietly but firmly.

"Rory - what are you doing here?" The fellow looks positively bewildered.

"Well firstly, Jess, I came to retrieve my wayward husband. Secondly, I came to ask him if he has any idea of what time it is!"

Both Jess and the man who had been staring at his wife, glance instinctively at their watches. The time reads 6:23.

"I missed my plane" says Jess, as though struggling to understand. He looks down helplessly at the countertop in front of him. It is littered with empty bottles and shot glasses. He is surprised. He does not recollect having drunk so much. He turns to his companion, the man who had been listening to his life's story all night, the man whom his wife is staring at again.

"Hey, man," he whispers loudly "Did you know I was missing my plane? You were supposed to be my friend, you were supposed to tell me what to do!"

His drinking companion says nothing. He gets slowly to his feet instead, and turns to survey a room which is now completely empty, save for a few stragglers hunched at corner tables.

"This club," he speaks clearly and deliberately, "Is now closed. Please leave." He sits down again and turns his face to the wall.

Jess looks at the man, a confused expression on his face, but Rory takes his arm and pulls him to his feet.

"Come on Jess," she speaks gently, "let's go home."

They slowly make their way to the entrance of the club, a young couple; husband leaning on his wife for support. Then they are at the doors, and Rory takes a last backward glance at the man sitting at the bar. His back is still turned to them, and he appears to have begun drinking. He raises a glass to his lips and tilts his head back. He sits tall and erect, shoulders proudly straight. He is very much the successful owner of the enormously popular Bombay Club. She turns quickly away.

"Come on, darling" she whispers to Jess, and then they are out in the crisp, early morning air, under a sky that is beginning to turn pink.

* * *

The hour long flight back to San Francisco is uneventful. Jess sleeps the sleep of the hung-over, and Rory has time to ponder the events of that morning. She wonders if she and Jess will ever discuss it. She doubts it.

She had suspected something was wrong when he had not been on the plane that morning. She had called the friend who looked after their daughter and told her that she was going to L.A. It had taken a while to get through to one of Jess's publishers. She had been told of his habit of visiting the Bombay Club to kill time, before catching the 3:00 am flight.

She had thought it would be illegal for a club to stay open after three, but apparently the owner of the Bombay had a deal with the police. The bouncers at the door had let her in easily, and she had soon picked him out in the silent club, at the bar, next to a man who looked strangely familiar...

She had made a habit of picking Jess up at the airport every Friday morning, ever since he had started negotiations for the new contract. It's the least she can do, to be there for him in body, when she can't be there in spirit. She wonders, sometimes, if Jess has ever noticed. These past few months, she has begun to think he has. He's drinking more, she knows, and it's changing him. She remembers the man she thought she had known, independent, stubborn, and strong. This man sleeping beside her, smelling of booze and smoke, is...weak.

She has seen him drunk before, but it had been different. He had been alive and reckless then. In her university days, she recalls. They had often gotten drunk and gone running through the streets whooping and laughing, bar-hopping all night for fun.

This morning he had seemed so lost, as though he needed someone to guide him, to help him. Jess is not a helpless person. He's confident and always sure of himself, or at least, he'd always seemed so. Yet, back there in the club, she had almost been ashamed of him. 'Perhaps,' she thinks, 'I'm being unfair. Perhaps I only feel that way because...because...' but she cannot bring herself to think his name.

She has lately started regretting her decision to come back to Jess. They have not been the same together, since the night she came back. She hadn't noticed at first, because there had been so many things going on after their re-union. He'd begun making a name for himself, they'd moved, she had become pregnant, and life had just been terribly busy. This past year though, when he had taken some time off writing, she had understood suddenly that, ever since her return, he had placed her on a pedestal and worshipped her.

He had given up smoking suddenly, for her, and she had been touched. Then he had become more attentive, doing things she liked, preparing surprises for her, and she had been flattered. When he stopped arguing with her, however, she had begun to worry. She had realized that he was treating her like something fragile, as though he were afraid of breaking her. Or losing her again.

Rory often wonders at the power she holds over Jess. At first she had felt it tedious, but more recently, a part of her has admitted that she likes it. She can do anything she wishes, ultimately. She can indulge herself, because Jess never tries to stop her. It's enough to make anyone selfish, and yet, overall, she feels only frustrated. She wishes that Jess could feel angry at her, could feel something other than anxiety over her. She wishes that he could be strong again, so that she did not have to be their support. She knows that if she so chooses, she can leave him, and he will not blame her. That's partly why she doesn't. She can never tell him what really happened in New York either, because he wouldn't feel angry or jealous, only hurt and insecure.

The really terrible thing about it, she knows, is that since the day he left, he has never been able to cease feeling guilty. He still feels guilty, because she wants him to; because she has never forgiven him for leaving her that day or for needing her to come back to him. She can't forgive him for having taken her love for granted, even though he has spent the last four years doing penance. Mostly though, she can't forgive him because her bitter anger lets her feel that she is blameless. She isn't.

That's something she has never admitted to herself. Something she could never admit to him. He put her on a pedestal, and now she's afraid to fall from it. Yet the fact remains that, while Jess left her temporarily, he was never unfaithful. She was. She wonders why it bothers her so much. Men and women cheat on each other all the time. Some people say it's natural, that human beings aren't meant to be monogamous. She knows that ought to comfort her, but deep down she also knows that, if Jess ever told her he had been unfaithful, she would leave him on the spot. If she can't tolerate weakness in him, how can he tolerate it in her? It's all so confused and twisted. She has never really known what she wants, and she still doesn't.

* * *

He sits in the dark and looks out at the city. It is still shrouded in sleep, but to the east long, golden fingers are reaching out. They hit the tops of buildings, glass skylights, metal roofs, until the city is illuminated. He is often awake at daybreak, but this morning he has more to consider than what he will eat for breakfast. The club is empty now, the bouncers having cleared everybody out. He wonders if his friend at the nearby police station will be popping by later for his share of the profits. Probably.

He turns to consider the city again, but her face keeps getting in the way. He looks dumbly down at the empty bottle in his hand, and she is there too. He smiles, and in one swift movement, hurls the bottle at the wall in front of him.

She is still there though, staring at him, her face visible on each glassy shard. He lets his head drop, and closes his eyes.

It is some time later when Jack the bartender enter the room. He surveys the scene, and sighs. He had been hoping to get home early. There are still a few club employees on the higher floors. He leaves to enlist their help. Someone must take the boss home and the rest of them will have to clean up the place. He shakes his head as he heads toward the elevators. It's a good thing this only happens in the winter time.