Disclaimer, rating and information about spoilers can be found in the first chapter.

Author's Notes: Thanks to everyone who reviewed. I'm glad people still care. And for those who wanted something longer, I give you chapter 8: the second longest, thus far. It's a little raw, and I'm not entirely pleased, but I have a demon!paper to write and I'm getting this out so I can focus on it.

Part Eight: Avoiding the Issue

They'd been trying to lock the song for two hours. Dave was distracted, Zack was huffy and Brian was watching the two of them uneasily.

"Dude. What is up?"

Dave looked up, somewhat fuzzy. That had been Zack. And he seemed rather irate. Probably with good reason as Dave had just messed up his fingering, yet again, and made a sound come from his guitar that was not suitable for human ears. "Nothing," even so, he played dumb.

Brian rolled his eyes. And something was officially wrong with the universe when Brian was rolling his eyes at you. "You're way off. Way, way, way off."

Ouch.

Zack snorted. "Forget off. You're sucking. Like a…"

"Hoover," Brian interjected, mercifully, as whatever Zack was about to say was probably not PG. "So what's the deal?"

"Fine," Dave said, resigned. Maybe it would be good to get some outside opinions on the situation; perhaps it would provide some perspective. "I kind of, sort of, made out with Rory Gilmore."

"Dude," Zack said, sounding awed, "high five. Rory's hot. And she has a car." So maybe he'd been giving them too much credit in the perspective department. Dave glared until Zach's hand returned to his side. "What?" Zack looked towards Brian, sufficiently bewildered, "What'd I say?"

Dave resisted the urge to smack him. Zack held a grudge. "Lane. Girlfriend. Cheater. Me."

Five. Four. Three. Two… Comprehension dawned. And ahead of schedule, too. Impressive. "Oh. Riiiiight."

"Yeah."

Zack waited a beat, "So, scale of one to ten. Just how good is she?" This time Dave did smack him. And promptly wiped his hand on his jeans. Zack used far too much product. "Ow! What the hell, man?"

"Don't talk about her like she's some random groupie."

"Ha! I wish."

With a sigh, Dave prepared to smack Zack yet again, and Zack cowered, just a little. Brian, silent up until that point spoke up, stilling Dave's hand midway, "You really like her, don't you?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I think I do."

"What are you going to do about it?" Brian asked.

"I wish I knew. And I can't believe I'm one of those guys."

"What guys?" Zack asked, mildly pouty.

"You know, those guys that cheat. Next thing you know I'm wearing Hawaiian shirts and utilizing, 'hey baby what's your sign?' Oh god. I'm a frat boy."

"No you're not."

"Thanks Brian."

"You just don't have the build for prints."

They saw little of each other during the next few days. It wasn't avoidance so much as it was the conscious giving of space. Plus, Emily had asked at the last Friday night dinner how the Yale preparations were going and had been scandalized to learn that they had not yet begun. The very next day Rory had found herself in the back of a chauffer driven car next to her grandmother being lectured on the importance of thread counts. Rory watched as a blur of linens and toiletries and office supplies, costing far more than they should have, were wrapped up.

Then, one morning, a Tuesday that was just a little bit cloudy, Rory ran into Mrs. Kim while on her way to meet her Lorelai for coffee. When she'd seen Lane's mother, walking along at an impressive clip, she'd had the urge to flee in the other direction. The woman barely tolerated her most of the time, and that had been before Rory had betrayed her only daughter. However Mrs. Kim had spotted her and nodded her head curtly, a sign that she wanted a word. Fleeing, Rory decided, would have looked weird. And possibly, to Mrs. Kim, like she had suddenly taken up drugs or wind sprints or some other distasteful hobby. "Hello Mrs. Kim," she called out politely, "how are you doing?"

"Rory. Lane will be returning in three days."

"Oh! That's wonderful."

"Yes. We have much work to do. For school. Goodbye."

"Bye." For a moment, Rory was jubilant. Lane was coming home! For a moment. Then the best friend related excitement was replaced with other woman related feelings of guilt. It seemed that she had to talk to Dave.

Rory's opportunity came quickly, later that day. She paced the kitchen as band practice went on, and decided that two hours of pacing had to be sufficient cardio for at least a month. When the telltale signs of packing up reached her ears she bolted into the garage.

All three boys looked up at her entrance. Dave straightened and smiled, almost shyly, and her stomach bottomed out. "Hey."

"Hey," she replied and forgot about the presence of miscellaneous band mates. For a second.

"Hi Rory. Cute shoes."

Okay. That was… odd. By the look on Dave's face, he apparently thought so as well. "Thanks Brian. They're my mom's.

"Good afternoon, Miss Gilmore. You're looking well." She turned to Zack and found that he was gazing somewhere in the vicinity of her left earlobe. Had she been standing two feet over. Twilight Zone-esqe music began to play in her head.

"I'll see you later, okay?" Dave directed the comment to Zack and Brian. It was clearly a hint. They took it, lugging various pieces of music making equipment with it. When they were gone. He stepped around his opened guitar case so he stood within arms length. "Hey again."

"How is it," Rory wondered aloud, "that I'm not around for a few days and all of a sudden Brian's all 'Just Jack!' and Zack's become Dame Judy Dench?"

Dave smiled, "I kind of missed you."

Damn it. Still charming. "I kind of missed you, too. But we need to talk."

"I figured. Look, Rory, I…"

"Lane's coming back. Friday." Oops. That was not how she'd wanted to drop that particular bombshell.

"Oh. Well. That's not much time, is it?"

"No. Hence the need to talk. But not here. I can't have this conversation in my garage. Cars live here." She turned and headed back into the house. Dave trailed after her. She seemed to be headed to the kitchen but veered off to the living room at the last second. Probably a good thing. Dave didn't think he could sit in the room where he'd first kissed her without wanting to do it again. And such a thought was just not conducive to a rational, adult conversation. She gestured for him to take a seat on the couch and he complied. "Wait here." She darted off and disappeared into her bedroom. He'd never actually seen it, but was sure it was nice. When she appeared again she was armed with two spiral notebooks and a fistful of pens.

Dave raised an eyebrow, "Are we playing Pictionary?"

Rory deposited the notebooks and pens on the coffee table, and seated herself on the floor, across from him. She drew a single pen towards herself and flicked it so it spun. "I'm not always good at saying what I feel when it counts for something." She watched the pen intently.

Dave scooted off the couch and onto the floor. He dipped his head down, until his chin pressed into the table, but he was able to meet her eyes. "Does it count now?"

She flipped open a notebook and scribbled for a second. 'Yes' it said. Always a good word.

He claimed a pen. Reaching across the table he wrote a reply, 'I'm glad' underneath her answer. She pretended to glare, "Hey. Get your own notebook. And write legibly."

They continued that way for a little while, posing questions and writing answers. There was a certain measure of security in the almost clinical nature of it. Neither had to confess anything without the other having to as well. They were more honest than they might have been otherwise.

Eventually, the answers got longer and more complex, the questions less concrete, and they began to talk more than write. Neither really noticed the change.

Nearly two hours later they were sprawled on the living room floor, the coffee table flipped on its side to give them more room. Rory was on her stomach, her arms wrapped around the pillow her head was resting on. Dave lay on his back, his arm nearly touching her side, his head turned towards her. He was watching her, unblinkingly and it was mildly disconcerting.

"Okay," Rory said, attempting to fit the pieces of what she'd learned into a whole, "So we've established that you like me. And that I like you."

"There is mutual like."

"And that liking is of a more than friendly variety."

"Definitely."

Rory ignored his attempts to be glib, "And that you're not my usual type, and perhaps that's a good thing."

"And that I don't have an established type, and that that's a pretty good thing, because you're an undiagnosed schizophrenic in relationship situations."

She gave in and laughed. She rolled over onto her side, propped her head up on her hand and poked him. "I think it's worth noting that you appear to be incapable of not doing the funny-deflecting thing."

He mimicked her pose, "Ah. But there's a method to my madness." His voice lowered, ever so slightly, and she felt him leaning into her. His fingers reached out traced the corner of her eye, coming to rest on her cheekbone. "Frowning gives you wrinkles." He kissed her then, gently, his mouth relearning hers. When she responded, slipping her fingers up his chest, he pulled back muttered her name thickly and kissed her again, tangling his hands into her hair. When she would have fallen back to the floor and pulled him along with her he pulled away. They were still for a second, breaths coming short and fast. Finally he spoke, his mouth curving into a smirk. "Plus, you're far prettier when you smile."

She smirked back, "Cheesy, Rygalski."

"All true, Gilmore."

He pulled away from her completely and sat up. She did the same and clarity returned. They were there for a purpose. She drew in a breath and straightened her hair. They had yet to deal with one very important thing: the Lane factor.

Next Chapter: The Lane factor. And, uh, no end in sight people.