Again, thank you for the wonderful feedback. Mmmm, yum. This part was particularly difficult to write and seemed almost impossible to bear--that is, if it weren't for the sweet, sweet feedback.

5: Curveballs of Denouement

In my beginning is my end.

-T.S. Eliot

One day after school, he found himself wandering aimlessly in a bookstore. He didn't know why exactly, but there he was, contemplating on heroes and anti-heroes, conflicts and solutions, climax and denouement. He wasn't much of a reader, but he had dated Rory the Avid Reader, and while he was more inclined to stare at her lips and very, very pretty eyes when she ran run-on sentences like no other, he had picked up this and that about literature and poetry, conflicts and character developments. Supposedly, in a prototype of a tale, a hero would be faced with a conflict, search for an answer, and when he found it, the story would come back in a full circle. The question raised in the beginning would be answered in the end, and if there was no answer, that was already enough of an answer. A mind-boggling concept, really, one that he didn't care much about.

But then, at one point he passed Fiction & Literature section of the bookstore, seeing a huge copy of War And Peace and a relatively thinner one of The Sun Also Rises. He passed Poetry section, looking at T.S. Eliot and the Portable Dorothy Parker. He ended up walking out with four new books in his hands and not once realizing what he had done until he was blocks away from the bookstore.

Dean wondered briefly if there was some sort of a hidden meaning for his actions, for buying the books and not even getting the receipt. He refused to admit that these books were very closely related to his ex-girlfriend, or that books were supposedly where people (Rory) sought their answers. People (Rory) talked about books with others who understood (Jess) and talked about life. Dean told himself that he was finding out why's and how's without relying on books, that he had decided to live, not linger, in life, and that was what he was doing.

But first, he had to find out 'how' he was going to write this new script, which, if the last couple of weeks had been any kind of evidence, was proving to be quite difficult.

Maybe reading books couldn't hurt.

He passed the baseball field, thinking about softball games that he hadn't been to for a long time, and the grocery store, thinking about the internship that he had yet to call in to take. He passed Luke's diner, thinking about not-thinking, and he looked up when he sensed another person occupying the road ahead of him.

The man with the ever-present cap and the familiar traditional flannel stood in front of Dean, not exactly blocking Dean's way, but not really moving out to make a way for him.

Options? Dean could risk striking up a conversation and get into a fight, or he could ignore the guy and walk passed him and get into a fight. Okay, so not much of options there.

"So," Dean said to Luke, going for the first option since it had more chance of only including verbal abuse and not physical.

"So," Luke grunted, sort of acknowledging him, but not really.

Had there been any kind of incidents that Luke would like to beat him up for? If this was Luke resuming his position as the pseudo father to Rory and here to kick Dean's butt for the break-up, it was certainly too late. And Luke was all for Rory and Jess, Rory being a good influence and all, so that was off. Dean raked his brain, but nothing else came to his mind. What was this about, then?

Dean waited, waited, and waited, while Luke scrambled about, shuffling his feet.

Finally, when Dean actually got to the point of wondering whether Luke was here to thank him for not killing Jess yet, Luke spoke, the usual grumpiness applied underneath the growling voice, "What's that?"

"Um," Dean looked down at his hands, "books?"

"I can see that," Luke glared. "What are they? You know, the titles, authors, things that traditionally describe books?"

Dean shrugged. He wasn't so eager to share his taste in books with Luke just yet. "Just some stuff for school."

"School's almost over."

"I read."

"Since when?"

"Since I said what's it to you?"

"Hmph." Luke scrambled about with his feet a bit more, and when Dean thought wistfully of the possibility of the option three -- turn on the heels and get the hell out of dodge regardless of consequences -- Luke pushed a brown paper cup into Dean's hand. "Here."

Dean peered into it. "What's this?"

"What does it look like?"

Looked like coffee, smelled like coffee, tasted like coffee. "What I meant is--why are you giving this to me?"

"'Cause," Luke mumbled, looking away.

"'Cause what?"

"You like coffee, right?"

"Of course."

"Then what the hell is your problem?"

"I think I should at least know why I'm getting free coffee--from you." And they both knew Luke wasn't that generous with his prestigious coffee. "It's not poisoned or anything, right?"

"Will you just take the damn coffee!"

Slowly, Dean tilted his head, suppressing a smile, "Are you trying to say 'Sorry', Luke? Is this an I'm-Sorry gift?"

"That's it," Luke made threatening steps toward him, "Gimme that back."

Dean jumped away to avoid Luke's hand. "No can't do," he stifled a laugh, "It's mine now."

Luke growled, and Dean could no longer suppress the smile threatening to take over his entire face. He now had the first-handed experience how much fun it was to ruffle Luke's feathers, an enjoyment that seemed reserved for Lorelai, and he was immensely proud of himself.

"Hey, Luke?"

Half turning, Luke barked, "What?"

"Are you speaking to Lorelai yet?"

Luke was the only person Dean knew who could actually express annoyance with his entirely body. "What's it to you?"

Dean, of course, tried not to enjoy Luke's annoyance too much. "Still not talking? Wow, this's lasting long."

"I said it once and I say it now--what's it to you?"

"Admit it, you miss her."

Luke grumbled something colorful under his breath, then said out loud, "And this is any of your business, how?"

"Just paying my coffee's worth, Luke," Dean grinned and paused, because he now wondered if he could possibly ask for more from Luke, and whether Luke would let him. "You know the softball game next Saturday."

"What about it?"

"I haven't practiced. My swing's kinda slow."

"It always has been."

Dean saw no point in reestablishing that he was the best hitter, Luke being the best pitcher, that the town had, so he let the comment slide. "Wanna pitch some balls for me?"

Luke shot him a look that would freeze the hell twice and over. "Now?

"Why not?"

"For you?"

"Yep."

"While my diner's run by Kirk?"

Yikes, Luke had let Kirk run his store to give Dean a cup of coffee? While finding that image inappropriately funny, Dean felt oddly touched. "Yes."

Luke pretended to think. It didn't last a second.

"What the hell. Let's go."

They pitched balls and swung bats until Luke begrudgingly admitted Dean's batting skill, until they couldn't see because of the dark, until Dean couldn't breathe any more, until Dean thought--I might not need those books after all.

Because this field with protesting Luke, like Tristan with his cigarettes and Lorelai with her phone calls and Lane with her ice creams and Amanda with her high heels, was where he could find all the answers and how's. Because everything was about process, and he would rather spend his time with other people he cared about, not drying up inside to forget.

And because coffee never tasted this good.

"Everything," Tristan said, a cigarette burning between his fingers, "is about the process."

Dean was not overly surprised to find Tristan occupying a spot in his garage that night. It was very like him to appear out of the thin air, lying down in front of the shack as if he owned everything and smoking the hell out of himself. He had been here for quite a while. As a proof, the only reminders of Dean's stack of beer were the squashed cans currently decorating his garage yard.

Dean thought for a second, and with his hands in his pockets, sauntered across to the shadowy figure that was Tristan.

Dean stopped in front of him, made an observation of the small mountain of cigarettes at Tristan's feet. "If I make an untimely joke that this is a non-smoking section, are you gonna give a damn?"

Tristan let out a long stream of smoke. "Nope."

Well, at least he could always trust Tristan to be Tristan. Dean allowed a small grin to slip into his face before sitting down at his side.

So. Tristan was here.

Which meant the talk with his father couldn't have gone well.

Which also meant Dean wasn't supposed to ask what happened just yet. Dean played with an empty beer can, glancing at Tristan briefly from time to time. It was quite frightening how well Dean had come to know Tristan, but he knew if he waited enough, Tristan would eventually tell him, in one way or the other, everything.

Three more cigarettes and the definitely increased chance of lung cancer later, they were still sitting in the jet-black darkness with none of the benefit of the moonlight.

The surreptitious silence was in the air, the reminiscence of their night here before.

And Tristan had not said another word.

It was getting way too dark, and slightly chilling. Dean slowly got up, reaching out to turn on a small bulb of light hung in front of his shack. He almost tripped over another carelessly strewn can when a hand reached and pulled him down.

"Don't," Tristan said, voice low. When Dean looked at him with puzzlement, Tristan added, "Attracts bugs. I hate bugs."

And that was that. One irritating side of actually getting to know somebody was that Dean was no longer allowed not to give a rat's ass about little things like Tristan's comfort level.

Tristan lit another cigarette with his lighter. The light of it flickered and pierced the darkness in a quicksilver of moment. But that brief second was enough--Dean closely saw bruises and cuts on Tristan's face, no longer hidden in the dark.

Damn. Dean stared until he couldn't contain himself. "What the hell happened?"

The cigarette light glimmered ominously. "You would think someone with several graduate degrees from an Ivy League would know how to communicate with other than fists."

Dean took a moment for it to sink in. "Your Dad...did this?"

Tristan blew out smoke and Dean suppressed the urge to cough. "Before disowning me totally and calling me names. Sticks and bones, mister. And then had some muscles-R-us to escort me back to the school."

"But..?"

"But like I said, I run very very well. Had a lifetime of practice. The only skill I've acquired in life, even. It finally paid off."

A son of a well-off elite family, getting beat up by his own father and running away from it all. For Dean, it seemed right out of some drama, far from his own life that self-confessedly contained nothing out of ordinary, hard to imagine.

Being treated like that by his own father was even harder to imagine.

Tristan wouldn't want, need, sympathy, Dean thought. And that limited the possible responses Dean could come up with. The school didn't teach him the stuff that really mattered, like what to say in such situations.

Dean got up to walk over to the garbage can and dug out a six-pack. He opened one of them and walked back to hand it to Tristan.

Dean could feel, rather than see, Tristan's eyebrow arching. "Getting sneaky for your old age?"

Dean shrugged. His father's sudden inspections had been getting insistent lately and he had had to use the century old trick of hiding stuff in the garbage can, but Dean very much doubted if any of them wanted to talk about their fathers at this point. "This's all I've got to offer as consolation," he waved the beer at him, "Take it or leave it."

Tristan finished an entire can without an intake of breath. "You're turning me into an alcoholic."

Joke, jab, something light and sarcastic. Dean could deal with that. "And I'm responsible for the Dark Age and destroying the Ozon layer?"

"At least you're man enough to admit it."

"Somebody better be."

Now what? Dean asked himself because he was unwilling to ask Tristan. He didn't know if this running fiesta was something permanent, whether Dean should even be talking to him now rather than calling his parents.

Then Dean saw Tristan's face again.

It was decided. "You can stay here," Dean said, putting an effort to sound casual. "Or at my house, if you can put up with my folks. They're gonna ask questions after a couple of days."

If Dean had ever wondered if he'd put up with Tristan before only because of beer, he just found out. Sometimes, the world was too much.

There was a second of frozen moment. Dean suddenly wished for some light, to see Tristan's face, read his expression.

"I'm leaving," Tristan said, the voice now carefully composed, emotions hidden. "Just needed a place to sit down and think for a bit for tonight, to get my act together. Where they wouldn't look."

"Come to my place, then. And take a shower first, 'cause you stink."

Tristan laughed for the first time that night, but it was no longer edged or wounded. If anything, he sounded...free.

The realization dawned on Dean. "You're not going back." It wasn't a question.

"Clever boy."

If it were any other person speaking in any other way, Dean would have tell him to go back, not to kid himself. But it was Tristan, and Dean saw no hesitation in him. Serious angst, yes, but not hesitation. His mind was already made up.

"So. Going to do your own saving?"

"That's the idea, yeah." Clearly, Tristan wasn't in the mood to elaborate.

Dean looked at Tristan's face once more and gave in. "Where are you going?"

"Anywhere I want."

"Send a postcard."

"Sure," Tristan answered easily. "In exchange for the car you promised."

Dean snorted. "I don't recall promising you anything."

"Still hurt, huh?"

Couldn't admit, nor deny. A classical conundrum, Dean thought.

"You're an idiot," Tristan promptly declared.

"Speak for yourself."

"We both are," Tristan amended.

Dean saw Tristan, and the stuff that frighteningly resembled worry boggled in his mind. He kicked the can he'd been abusing, all venting on frustration, "Dammit, you're such a jackass. Tell me you have a plan. You're so gonna kill yourself out there."

Dean swore he saw a ghost of smile across Tristan's face. "Is that a hint of worry I detect?"

Dean kicked the can a bit more. "In your dreams."

Momentarily, Tristan's gaze stayed on Dean's face. Then he turned away. "I have friends," Tristan said, "All these friends from Chilton, gangs I hung out with. And the only place I felt like paying a visit was here. I kinda wonder why."

That didn't help, Dean thought grumpily. That meant absolutely too much, and Dean, with his inarticulate brain, still couldn't find any comforting words For Tristan.

Tristan casually threw a cigarette on the ground. "When I come back, I'll trust a car to be ready on my account."

"Does that mean you will come back?" Dean surprised himself by asking the question. He surprised himself even more by actually hoping the answer would be a 'yes'.

"Blood red, convertible and MP3 player. Gotta have PJ Harvey in it, or no deal."

That reminded Dean. "What's with you and PJ Harvey?"

A furtive smile was all Dean got as an answer. "Now," Tristan said, stretching his arms and haphazardly throwing small stones out of the way to make a room to lie down on the ground. "Get the hell outta here. Go home to your precious family. I'm gonna get some sleep."

Before Dean could say "Role reversal much?", Tristan was already all stretched out, eyes closed. Dean shook his head.

When Dean came back with a sleeping bag, Band-Aids and some sandwiches, Tristan looked asleep. Gingerly, Dean tucked him in under the bag, settling on his side when finished. Leaving him here alone was unthinkable.

Dean stole a cigarette from Tristan's pack and lay back too, looking up at the now-familiar night sky.

Doing your own saving. Dean thought maybe he understood it, what Tristan meant. Sometimes people only saw their value of existence in others. They would like to be respected and loved, the meaning of their existence being confirmed because you were loved back.

Dean saw something special, something that he had never seen before, in Rory. The fact that she liked him back wasn't just a simple boost in self-esteem. It had almost seemed like he had some sort of meaning in this world, that he meant something to this world, because Rory, at that moment the representation of the best the world had to offer to him, liked him back. Because he meant something to Rory.

So when Dean had realized that wasn't the truth, the world came crumbling down on him.

It was the time to go back and be himself. To do his own saving and be himself, to write the new script, to introduce variations in narrative inevitability.

When the morning came, they didn't shake hands. They said no goodbyes. They didn't wish each other good luck. It wasn't their way. Dean only nodded, and Tristan, his hands in his pockets and a PJ Harvey Dean had very reluctantly handed to him, turned away.

Tristan was going to be all right. Dean knew.

Before he completely disappeared, Tristan suddenly turned on his heels. "Maybe before I go, might as well see his face. That guy, whatzhisname."

Dean almost laughed. Gleefully imagining what could happen, he said, "Don't make too much trouble."

Tristan smirked. "What trouble?"

By the end of the next day, Dean heard bits and pieces of rumor from the town grapevine that Tristan made appearance in front of Rory and Jess, interrupting them at an important moment. Tristan had received somewhat of a warm welcome from Rory, but not at all of welcome from Jess, who, after five minutes, took a swing at Tristan.

Dean chuckled, and wished he had been there to observe the spectacle. Of course, he wouldn't have remained as an observer for long. So, Tristan still had in him to pull off his god-given infuriating jackass role after all. Dean had thought that might not work on Jess, always the cool one, but Jess had fared no better than Dean had previously.

The life wasn't going to make things any easier for him. Pain did not disappear. It was still as acute as ever, the hole still empty. But if it wasn't going to change, he was going to have to make some changes for himself. He would have to go forward himself, to do things.

He passed the bus bench, Rory's bench, but didn't linger for a moment.

He came home, called the number Amanda had given him, and took the job.

Amanda came to visit him later.

There wouldn't be any repeated performance, he vowed, no more struggling. He was writing a new script.

Next morning, he spectacularly tripped over something that fell on the floor instead of his alarm clock at his rather violent waking ritual. The small book was open and the first line read, 'In my beginning is my end'.

He thought, this gotta be a sign.

In my beginning is my end. He didn't know what it was supposed to mean, whether it was oxymoron or paradox, both, or something else entirely. It mattered because the book right next to T.S. Eliot lay War and Peace, and he knew he had, like heroes and anti-heroes of any tale, made back a full circle. This had to be a sign. Sure, it took much longer for the protagonists of Tolstoy sagas, but Dean was pretty sure getting over Rory could not be a life story of Tolstoy proportions, and that this would end now.

He came to a full circle. This was his denouement, the end.

He thought, I'm over her.

It was a wondrous feeling, one that quite defied any kind of description. He was moving on. Slowly, but not agonizingly, he was moving on. He could feel himself moving on. He had moved on. Felt it in every moment of time that was flowing like air. So he happily let himself feel pride, for learning, for growing up, for letting go. He was at peace.

So naturally, this was when a new variation, a twist, came into play, making violent waves like an anvil dropped into a placid lake.

By the time the midnight phone call came from Lorelai for the fifth time, he wasn't thinking about Rory as much as he was worried for Lorelai. But this time, the conversation took on an entirely different meaning.

"My father, he--Dean, another stroke. Rory was supposed to be home hours ago, she took my car...Sookie's away on a trip... Had to call a cab but it's not here, and it's been... I--I don't think I can, Luke--" she stopped, hysteria suddenly dying down. "Dean, I didn't know who else to call."

If he hadn't been too shocked, he would have answered three sentences ago. Dean grabbed his keys, jacket, and wallet at once and stood on his feet.

"I'll be right there."

Things always came crashing down without a warning.

Lorelai did not speak. Lorelai did not pace.

Dean disliked empty hallways of any building. Building was there for people to live in, and hallways connected people in it. An empty hallway seemed to tell that people just no longer cared about one another, no connections. It seemed...lonely.

This hospital hallway, white and falsely bright, also seemed lonely, despite its three occupants.

Lorelai did not speak. Lorelai did not pace.

Everything was white here, in this waiting room. So white and organized and pungent in its hospital odor. On the side table of the chairs they were sitting on, several cups of coffee, water bottles, chocolate wrappers and cold sandwiches disturbed the squeaky clean look of the hallway, but nothing else disrupted the whiteness of this place. Lorelai did not touch the food, not even the coffee Dean had bought from the cafe across the hospital because he'd thought it didn't feel right Lorelai should drink the tasteless bending machine coffee, not even in this situation. The only person who did touch the food was Rory's grandmother, who had taken an entire bottle of water when she'd been told to wait, and that no, they couldn't tell her when the operation might end. That was three hours ago.

Lorelai did not speak. She did not pace.

What she did do was sitting on the chair, wordless. The only thing she had said ever since he had picked her up was a small, inaudible 'Thanks' and where to go. This frightened him. From what he'd heard and known, Rory's grandmother was also not the sort of person who would wait for things to happen sitting down. From what he knew, the both Gilmore ladies should be out there at the front desk, demanding answers and cause all the manner of trouble right about now. They said nothing, did nothing, only sitting and waiting. This, too, frightened Dean.

"Must be his cholesterol level," Mrs. Gilmore said, out of the blue.

Dean waited for Lorelai's standard quip that would make light mockery out of everything; it didn't come.

"Should start on that organic vegetarian diet," Mrs. Gilmore continued, thoughtful and matter-of-fact, "That should help. And less wine."

Lorelai said nothing.

"I should sign him up for a gym class," Mrs. Gilmore said a minute later, as if it just occurred to her.

Still nothing.

"No, I should set up a gym in our house," Mrs. Gilmore said, now frowning. "Richard would hate driving up to a gym by himself."

Nothing.

Rory's grandfather. In the hospital. Second stroke. This dangerous second stroke that was most likely to kill him.

Lorelai's father. In the hospital.

Yeah. Dean could understand Lorelai's silence.

Mrs. Gilmore went on about almost everything that she could, would, do about Rory's grandfather's health, as if he weren't in the hospital already. Almost instinctively she did not talk about this being Richard's second stroke, or it'd been several hours but no one had yet to tell them anything.

"Where's Rory?" Mrs. Gilmore asked abruptly in the middle of discussing the matter of hiring a cook who knew of organic cooking, and Dean froze.

She looked at him, not Lorelai, and for all the world, Dean wished he wasn't here. "I don't know, Mrs. Gilmore." The truth was, he had no wish to know.

"Not here."

Dean almost jumped in surprised when Lorelai spoke the first time in what seemed like hours.

"Rory was supposed to be home when you called me, Mom," Lorelai said, narrating in a flat, dull voice. "Was supposed to help me with Sookie's birthday present. I didn't have my car because she took it. Dean gave me a ride."

Mrs. Gilmore's lips pressed into a thin line as she observed Dean. He shifted in his seat uncomfortably. "I thought you two broke up," she commented clinically.

What was there to say? "We did."

Mrs. Gilmore regarded him keenly for the first time tonight. Slowly, she said, "Thank you."

Dean nodded, because 'You're welcome' felt somewhat condescending, and because if he started to speak, he would want to tell them that Richard would be fine, want to lie to them, want to reassure them. But what was the point of lying when there was no hope of them believing it at all?

Sudden footsteps echoed in the hallway, tailed by a tall woman in a whitecoat and a nurse, and Dean did jump up this time. Lorelai and Mrs. Gilmore made no move, as if dreading what was to come.

The sympathetic-doctor-of-the-day approached them, her expression soft, "Ms. Gilmore?"

"Yes," Mrs. Gilmore stood up slowly, almost determinedly, her chin up and her hands on her purse. "How is he?"

The doctor looked grave. "For now, he is stable."

Dean let out the breath he was holding. Mrs. Gilmore, whose strain had visibly lessened, quickly pressed for more, and they both left quietly, discussing his condition.

Lorelai stared at the floor. Her hands grabbed the chair handles so hard that they were knuckle-white.

"I thought," she said, whispering voice, "I thought I really lost him this time."

Dean had a few good inches on anyone including Lorelai, but she had never looked smaller before. She was always big and large, this mystical creature of energy who swept through every room like a gut wind, who could overpower everyone with a single smile, the power that seemed to have been inherited down to Rory as well.

Lorelai never looked this small in his eye, not like this, ever.

Dean remembered Rory's words that the visible gap still existed between Lorelai and Richard, even now. What would that mean to Lorelai? What she must carry with her underneath her smile... Everyone had their demons to carry.

Before he thought through anything, he found himself sitting down beside her, his way of telling her that he was here. She was still looking down, but as if reading him, she told him softly, "Thank you."

Dean nodded and was about to reply when he saw, from the corner of his eye, two figures appearing from the end of the hallway. He numbly thought: the doctor and Mrs. Gilmore. He was wrong.

"Mom." "Lorelai."

Dean recognized the voices; so did Lorelai. Lorelai stiffened right away, and Dean, in turn, sighed and leaned against the chair, his fingers rubbing at the temple. He had known this moment would come, but it was too fast, too early. He didn't feel ready.

Rory and Luke stopped in front of them, breathless. Rory's face was flushed, her hair and clothes wet. Luke's clothes and cap weren't faring any better.

It must be raining, Dean thought absently. Raining in Stars Hollow. It sounded wrong somehow.

"Mom, Grandpa--"

Lorelai didn't look at Rory. Lorelai looked beyond her, at Luke, then turned to Dean. Her expression was inscrutable, but Dean knew it was asking a question.

"I left Luke a message." To get to Jess, and ultimately, Rory. It had worked, apparently.

"You shouldn't have," Lorelai said, her voice sharp and cutting.

There was no smile on her face, and Dean was afraid that Lorelai might just walk away, ignoring them all. But she didn't. Because, just then, Luke tentatively took steps toward her.

"Lorelai," Luke spoke almost urgently, his hand reaching out to her. It almost touched her shoulder, but not quite. "Lorelai... I'm sorry."

Lorelai looked up at Luke for a moment, then her head fell slowly, gradually. As Dean thought her eyes were filling with tears, her hand reached up to Luke's chest, clutching his shirts.

"He's going to recover," a short, hiccup-like sob escaped her, her hair cascading and shadowing her face, "He's going to be okay."

"Yeah," Luke said so softly that Dean had to strain to hear.

When the tears subsided, Lorelai stood up, wanting to talk to the doctor. Luke, his hand on her arm, followed her.

If Dean wasn't so intent on the girl standing beyond them, he would've been surprised at Luke's rare demonstration of gentle concerns for Lorelai, and Lorelai's frank emotional display. It would've occurred to him that finally, finally, Lorelai and Luke's non-speaking period had ended. He even would have thought of the future blackmail material on Luke and rejoiced. He would've thought of all of these, all consciously, if it weren't for Rory.

Rory looked after her mom, her soft features stricken as if she was slapped on her face.

Lorelai had not once acknowledged her daughter.

The chair used to be white, he noticed, the white that matched the wall and the ceiling of the hospital. Now the color had faded and the chair had been scratched once too many, and it had turned almost beige. His back hunched and the hands entwined, Dean stared at the plastic chair he was sitting on until his eyes hurt.

Rory was sitting on the chair beside his, and like mother like daughter, had not moved as she had crumbled on it since Lorelai had left. He would have thought she was in a catatonic state if it weren't the slight tremble that seemed to shoot through her once in a while. She, too, was staring at her chair, waiting, waiting, endlessly waiting for her mother and grandma to come back. Waiting for some news on her grandpa. Waiting for her mom to speak to her.

To forgive her.

Dean didn't look at her, because no matter how he had braced himself so far, if he took one look at her, he would have to hold her then. And he couldn't do that. Shouldn't.

So instead, he said, "It's a give and take."

Rory's head snapped up. There were tears welling up in her eyes, he noted, and there was every indication she had heard him but not understood him.

"You got to give up something to get something. Lorelai might not understand, but Jess obviously does. I--" Dean stopped. This wasn't his place to be. He shouldn't. "Lorelai will come around," he finished off, looking away.

He made an observation of the chair once more and stood up. It seemed the hardest labor ever, just to stand up. "I should go," he said.

He almost lost his equilibrium when a hand, her hand, touched his. "Stay?" her voice crumbled, "I need a friend."

Her touch, even when her hand seemed frozen cold, burned his skin.

He couldn't.

"I can't be your friend, Rory."

"Why?" An innocent, pained, question, the one she shouldn't be asking for so many reasons.

Because that wasn't how things worked? Because he would do something incredibly foolish if he stayed? Because he had no mentality of a friend who wished all the good things without any motive? Because he couldn't be her friend and not hold her like he used to? Because he still loved her?

He choked down a lump in his throat and shut his eyes.

"You know why."

Dammit. Dammit. Dammit!

Dean walked and walked and walked, not once turning back to see her, her hurt expression, her wounded eyes that watched him leave. He turned the first corner, then he breathed, opened his eyes. For the first time, he ached for a cigarette.

This wasn't happening. He had thought, he had thought--

This wasn't happening.

A payphone was just across the front desk. By some mysterious force at work, he walked over and slipped in a quarter. He pressed the number somehow he had memorized.

When the familiar voice picked up, he spoke nonstop, "I don't like you. I've made it no secret that my great joy will be punching you in the face. But if you're half as smart as Rory seems to think you are, then you should be here. With her."

He hung up without waiting for an answer.

He leaned against the wall, his forehead touching its cool surface. He had held the corner of the plastic square phone booth too hard that his hands felt bruised. He wasn't going to think what he had just done, because no guy in his right mind would just refuse a chance to get back the girl of his dreams, because it was stupid, stupid, stupid--

He stopped himself, because a second longer like that, he could surely break something. He whirled around instead.

And Rory was there, barely a few feet away from him. She was watching him, her eyes infinitely pained and her hands shaky.

She had heard his call to Jess.

For the life of his, Dean couldn't figure out what thoughts must be going through her head.

"Why?" when she asked softly, her tears were back in place, the pain still too raw in her eyes.

Because at least this, he could do for her.

He began, "I..."

He didn't finish, because he couldn't.

The moment froze between them.

The distance between them, he could cross it, now. One mere step, and he could cross it. He could get her back, if he did. He thought Rory, too, wished that. If he held her hand. If he were to lean over and kiss her. If he became her comforting shoulders. If he crossed this distance between them. Regardless of consequences. Then the aching in his heart finally would cease.

"Rory?"

Mrs. Gilmore.

Mere few feet. If Rory decided to cross the distance, he might have a chance. That maybe, he could have her back. Something he had scarcely hoped for.

She didn't cross the gap between them.

Mere few feet that symbolized everything. There was too much ambiguity, too much unspoken. Too much he couldn't bear.

She was too far away.

Mrs. Gilmore stood behind her, her brief puzzlement turning into an understanding when she saw Dean.

This was not his place to be.

"I gotta go."

Mrs. Gilmore. "Dean?"

He didn't stop running until he got to his car.

It was raining outside, still. In the parking lot, he kicked a harmless garbage can, because his newfound fragile, precious peace was broken and he had to at least hit something.

Because if this renewed ache in his chest meant anything, this story was going to turn into Tolstoy proportion.

Life wasn't a story. Life threw curveballs at denouement.

TBC.