Title: Losing Left and Right, Finding In Between

Summary: Never in a million years did he expect to find her on his doorstep. Her, of all people. And truth be told, she never expected that it would be him she was running to.

Disclaimer: Don't own the characters. Credit for that mess goes to AS-P and The WB.

Notes: Uh, hey there. Anyone remember me? 'Cause I remembered all of you! See! I updated for you and everything. Finally. I know, I know, I'm sorry! Please forgive me? And take this beautifully crafted chapter (yeah, right) as a token of my...sorrowful...ness. Plus the fact that it's 3:26 in the morning...that's how sorrowful I am! I had to get this to you ASAP!

I know it's a pain, but you should probably skim over the last chappie so you know what's going on. :) This one doesn't have a lot of Lit in it (Sorry!); it's turned into a Lorelai-centric chapter, but it's necessary. Please read it anyway! Oh god, 50 people just hit the back button. Really...it's better than it sounds! I promise!

For all my new (and a few old) buddies at whose Lit talk and Dean bashing inspired me to finally update this mofo.

Onward...

Chapter Seven: Beautiful Criers...

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It seems like things change.

But they don't.

The fact is, things don't really change at all. No matter how much time passes, when it gets down to it, things relatively stay the same. People relatively stay the same.

Does that mean he will hurt her again? Not necessarily. Because the thing is, he's always had good intentions.

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It was something she wasn't quite used to yet. The lack of darkness. The sounds. The motion. Granted, they had only been in their New York apartment for a week and a half; ten days to be exact. Or was it eleven? Truth be told, they had barely left bed, and with the curtains drawn, the hours seemed like minutes, the night ran into the day.

The situation still seemed so surreal to her. Her with him. Him with her. Hours spent reading, or talking. Or not. She used to hate the silence that surrounded him, the facade, the wall; the wall she had spent two years attempting to chisel through, not even breaking the surface. The wall that used to annoy her so. The wall that wasn't really there. No, not really.

He was an entity unto himself (he would say the same about her), and she had come to realize that the silence that shadowed him wasn't all that bad. It wasn't that he wasn't open, it wasn't that he was shutting her out (not all the time). Jess just wasn't a vocal person. It took a little more prodding, a little more observation to understand him, but he wasn't a completely closed book. The cover was just heavy, and it took a little more effort to pry it open. But just a little.

Maybe he had changed; maybe it was her. Rory Gilmore wasn't perfect (obviously). She didn't have all the answers. Maybe she put too much pressure on him. She expected too much. All this time she thought about how he pushed her, when really she was the one pushing him.

Maybe it was timing. Timing can be the key to so many things.

Or was it a more divine shift? Maybe the stars were aligned; the universe in a kinder mood this time. There are so many factors, so many reasons. All she knew was that she could handle this now.

And so she took comfort in the quiet...

...she really did. But, being a Gilmore, silence is a luxury that doesn't last for long.

She skimmed her fingertips along his shoulder lightly and sat up close to his ear.

"Jess."

Nothing. Not a flinch, or even a slight shift. He lay perfectly stoic, perfectly peaceful. So she 'nudged' a little harder this time.

"Jess."

His bare chest continued to rise and fall steadily. He could be so annoying sometimes. She wanted talk, damn it, and here he was, silent, as per usual. Granted, he was silent because he was sleeping, but there was a time when she would have thought he was doing it on purpose, just to be spiteful. She rolled her eyes absent mindedly.

He was never around when she needed him.

She smiled at the absurdity of her thought process, choosing to muse over other aspects of her new lover. Which reminded her...

"Jess. Are you awake?"

"Hmph," he groaned, burying his face into her shoulder, cursing her for disrupting his not-often-reached (until recently) state of REM sleep.

"I have a question for you." Her tone was almost giddy, glad that she had finally roused him, and Jess decided that her voice alone made her 'impeccable timing' well worth it.

He shifted to his back and opened one eye just a smidge, signaling that he was somewhat coherent. She rolled over onto her right side, propping herself up on her elbow as a rather large grin formed on her face. "What's with the emo hair?"

"Watch yourself, Gilmore." His eyes stayed closed but his response was immediate; he had been expecting this conversation.

"What? I'm serious. Is it like a rite of passage type thing?

"I can't believe you woke me up for this," he moaned, raising his eyebrows suggestively. Then he paused, registering her words, "Wait, a rite of passage?"

"Yeah. I mean, you've struck out on your own. You're your own boss. Damn the man," she grinned.

"I could always shave my head."

"No!" she backtracked, "I love your definitely not-so-emo-ish tresses."

He smirked and shifted on the squeaky mattress, leaving a memory of a kiss on her nose before wiping a few strands away from her face.

"What about your hair? Was this a mom-approved cut?"

She smiled in spite of herself, "Nope. I did this all on my own."

"Paving the way for further decisions?" he yawned.

"Perhaps." The smile that had been contagious just moments ago quickly vanished, and she lay with a pensive look on her face while studying the ceiling tiles.

"Have you called her?" He snaked his arm around her torso, pulling her closer, a gesture that she had never known before, yet that she had somehow missed at the same time.

"Not yet."

"You can, you know. I mean, I know you know that, but you should. Call her, that is." His tone was soft, and she buried her face further into his shoulder, breathing him in. She whispered something along the lines of maybe tomorrow, but her voice was muffled, and her tone, less than convincing.

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It took about a week and an entire year's supply of Red Vines for Lorelai to finally gather up the courage, let alone the energy, to leave the house. But it was Monday, the start of a new week, of a new summer, of a new phase. And Lorelai was trying to be optimistic. To be hopeful. The sun was shining, the temperature was perfect (not too cool to need a jacket, but not too warm to flush you cheeks); hell, even the birds were chirping in an attempt to cheer her up.

But, as optimistic as she tried to be, she still had the unshakable urge to crawl back up the stairs and curl up in her bed, never to face the world again. But, alas, life must go on, even if it seems ours has just ended.

So, Lorelai set her alarm Sunday night, and on Monday morning she went about her routine as if nothing had changed. Get up; take shower; get dressed; notice stain on blouse, thereby having to change entire outfit; spend twenty minutes hobbling around house looking for other black pump; not finding it, then having to change once more because 'you can't not wear black pumps with the black and grey halter dress;' realize you're running ten minutes late; rush out door in panic.

Except that she made her own coffee, rather than opting to go to Luke's. The two hadn't talked since she took up her hermit-esque existence, and she still didn't know how she felt about him, about what he did, about helping Rory take off.

Not to mention the fact that going anywhere within the town square would guarantee the instantaneous issuing of sorrowful looks, endless pats on the shoulder and the over-sympathetic question 'have you heard from her,' not because they care necessarily, but because they need something new to feed the gossip chain.

So, after finally deciding on a floral print dress, complete with light pink sling backs, Lorelai was out the door and back on her normal schedule. But what, or rather who, she found on her front porch with his hand poised to knock was not what she was expecting.

"Dean! Oh my god."

"Lorelai, hi." He put his knocking hand back in his pocket.

Her tone was incredulous, "Hi? Did you just say 'hi' to me?"

He sighed, figuring that he would have to endure a 'Lorelai Lecture,' something he was not in the mood for. "Look I know that you're probably upset-"

"Oh, you don't know anything. Keep talking, Dean, and you'll see how 'probably upset' I can be." Her voice was steadily rising despite her best attempts at keeping her anger in check.

"Rory is an adult. I am an adult."

"On paper, perhaps, but I've yet to see any actions on either of your parts that support that."

"She can make her own decisions."

"Obviously, she needs a bit more practice."

"You can't keep me from seeing her."

"I can't? Try me," she countered, causing a short silence between the two. When Dean spoke, he sounded almost desperate.

"Just let me talk to her."

Lorelai unconsciously moved her frame against the door, then answered nonchalantly, "She's not here."

"Then I'll just wait."

"You do that."

He moved over to the porch swing, thinking this tactic would goad Lorelai into at least giving him a time-frame as to when Rory would be back. However, Lorelai's retreating back and the sound of the Jeep's engine weren't quite what he was expecting.

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The unpleasant confrontation with Dean sent Lorelai into a fuming mess as she barreled into the Inn's parking lot. It was only when she heard a few choice Spanish obscenities that she realized that, while in her blind rage, she had almost sent Eddie to meet his maker. Just because she was upset didn't mean she needed to unintentionally take out her stable hand.

"Eddie, I am so sorry!" she offered, sincerely, as she closed the door to the Jeep.

"Ay, mujer loca! Bruha! Tratas de morteme." Obviously he was not in a forgiving mood today.

"Hey! I know what a couple of those words mean, mister." Eddie's face immediately fell. Lorelai smirked and continued, "That's right. After hearing 'em a couple of times, I bought me a fancy Spanish to English dictionary. And I am not a mujer - I am a chica."

"You run me over," his accent was heavy, a la Antonio Banderas, however his build was more...Danny DeVito.

"I almost tapped you. Accidentally, I may add."

"You drive like mad woman!"

"I know. I'm sorry, okay," her tone was pleading. The last thing she needed was for the man who keeps the pretty horses alive to quit.

He eyed her, realizing that maybe he could actually benefit from this. "I think I need rest of the day off," he questioned cautiously.

She rolled her eyes, "Of course. Go recuperate."

"And I want a raise," he added quickly.

"Don't push your luck, hombre."

She pushed past him, smiling cutely, and sauntered towards the inn.

Everything looked the same as it had a week ago. The guests that she passed seemed relatively content, which was usually a good sign. The flowers weren't dead. Nothing appeared to be leaking, or burning for that matter. Everyone seemed to have been doing their jobs, and she suddenly felt like she wasn't really needed. Seeing Michel and receiving only a glare as he purposefully walked away from her magnified that feeling, and it was then that she decided coffee was definitely in order.

"You got here safely! You're in one piece!" Sookie exclaimed as she enveloped Lorelai in a rib-shattering hug, all the while being careful not to transfer any chocolate from her hands to Lorelai's dress.

"I took the back roads," Lorelai managed to squeak out.

Sookie stepped back to look at her. "Back roads? What back roads? Stars Hollow is a back road."

"Well, after cutting through the woods there and forging the river, I guess you could say I made my own back road."

"Seriously, did you make it through the town alright?"

Lorelai eagerly excepted the coffee Sookie offered her. "I didn't stop anywhere, but I could definitely feel the winds shift as I drove past."

"The gossip mongers will get over this," Sookie waved her arms, as if dismissing the problem.

"Eventually," Lorelai scoffed.

"Come on. They've never held onto something longer than a week. Two, tops," she reasoned.

"This is different, Sook. This is big. Had it not happened to me, I'd probably be talking about it too."

Sookie nodded. "That seems to be the case with a lot of stuff."

Lorelai continued, "I still haven't heard from her. Its not like her not to call. I don't even know if she's alright."

Sookie moved closer to put a caring arm around her best friend, "She is. She just needs time."

"She could send me a postcard. 'Made it to Hell's Kitchen. Living above a biker bar. Really happy.'"

"Lorelai," she giggled wholeheartedly.

The brunette looked up at her confidant from her place on the stool. "A Post-It note would be nice."

"I know," Sookie agreed.

"I'm sorry. Listen to me. I've left you hanging for an entire week."

"Everything's been running smoothly. Well, except for..." she shook her head, "No, everything's been smooth."

"Really?" her voice was skeptical.

"Smooth as silk," Sookie unconvincingly offered.

"I don't believe you."

"We had a few...incidents. But everything's smooth now."

"Smooth as silk?" she offered skeptically.

Sookie paused. "More like corduroy. Just a little texture."

"Sookie."

She pointed at her with a spatula, "Don't worry about it."

"Uh, you guys?" The blond man in his late twenties leaned against the doorframe.

"Hey! How are you Steven!" Lorelai gushed.

"Good to see you back, Lorelai. So, I just saw Eddie take off."

Sookie's head shot up, as did her stirring arm, sending a wave of batter across the kitchen. "What?"

Lorelai interjected, "I kind of told him he could go. I almost hit him with my car, so I figured it was the least I could do."

Sookie nodded, understanding, as if it was an excuse often accepted, "Oh, okay. Steve, you're in charge today."

"Yippee," he offered sarcastically, retreating from the doorway.

"Hey, why don't you go check on the horses, too," Sookie suggested.

Lor shook her head, "But I should-"

Sookie cut her off and began leading her out of the kitchen, "Ease yourself back in. We've got a slow day going here, 'kay. Come back in fifteen minutes, and I'll have some brownies for you to try."

Her words were met by a loud crash and a strangled cry from the kitchen.

"Make that twenty minutes," she smiled. After a beat, she added, "I'd better go check on...yeah. Jake!"

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The rest of the day had gone by in an unusually unceremonious fashion, and although Michel avoided her like she had the Black Plague, Sookie "accidentally on purpose" added too much cocoa to the brownies, so Lorelai was forced to take them home with her. The thought was nice, but brownies equal wallowing food, and if she had wallowing food on hand, she would be forced to wallow.

Then again, she probably would've decided to wallow anyway, so at least she had brownies.

It was late - almost dark - when she pulled the Jeep into the driveway that day. And who did she find on her doorstep? Why it was Mr. Adulterer himself.

"You're here. You are actually back here, sitting on my porch," she stopped in the yard as he rose from the top step.

"I'll keep coming back," he declared, coming down the steps, one, two, three, until he was eye level with her (or as close to eye level one can be with Dean Forester).

Advancing past him, she spat back, "Good luck with that."

"What is that suppose to mean?"

She had reached the porch, but turned around at the sound of his voice. His back was still to her, but his shoulders were tense, his spine erect, signaling that he was getting angry.

She knew she shouldn't, but she antagonized him anyway, "What do you think it's suppose to mean?"

He spun around. "Who knows Lorelai? Half of the time you talk in code, so excuse me if my pea-brain can't grasp the concept on the first time around!"

"Go," she drew the first word out, "home."

"Not until I talk to her." He spoke slowly, enunciating each word with an angry calm.

"You're seriously telling me you haven't heard?"

"Heard what? I've been gone for a week. I've been in Maine with-"

She cut him off, "Your wife? So you finally remembered her? Good. That's a start."

"Where is Rory?"

"I don't know!" she took a moment, a deep breath to try and keep her voice from rising, before she spoke again, "Okay? Happy? I have no idea where she is!"

"What are you talking about?"

"She left, Dean. Took off," she gestured wildly with her arms, "to god knows where. Well, okay, I do know where, but not where specifically," the second part was said quietly, more so to herself, but loud enough for Dean to hear.

He looked down, stunned and confused, "She's gone?"

"Was she supposed to wait around here? For you?" her voice rose again, anger bubbling over the surface.

"It's not like her to just take off," his voice was getting smaller, he was getting smaller, as he lost his steam, his conviction.

Lorelai, however, seemed to feed off the sight of the deflating spirit in front of her, "You're damn straight it's not!"

"Well...I..." he stammered, "where would she go?"

"New York," she answered nonchalantly.

"New York? All of her family is in Connecticut. Why...why New York?"

"I'll give that pea-brain of yours a second to warm up."

They stood in silence for a few seconds, in a sort of staring contest, each daring the other to end the showdown. Lorelai, tired and frustrated, decided his pea-brain was taking too long.

"Jess! God, Jess is in New York! It's all over town, Dean. So is news of the affair, so you may want to tell Lindsay before someone else does. Now get the hell of my property."

He took a step back, head down, trying to process the information, "I don't believe you. She wouldn't go there, back to him, she wouldn't..." he trailed off, trying to come up with more reasons, more explanations.

"I never thought she would either, alright," she spoke softly, almost feeling sorry for the flustered guy in front of her, the guy she had know for years, the guy she, at one point in time, probably would have picked to be with Rory. But that empathy was lost once he spoke again.

"Her and I were going to-"

"To what, Dean? You were going to be together? But only after you smoothed things over with your wife on a weeklong vacation, right? Hey, I get it. You wanted the best of both worlds."

If he heard her, which, considering the volume of her voice, was impossible not to, he didn't let on or react in any way. He only shook his head and muttered softly, "I can't believe she took off like that."

"You brought this on yourself. This is your fault," she said, turning on her heel and entering the dark house, signaling and end to the conversation. Dean stood still, reeling from this newfound revelation.

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Lindsay sat at the kitchen table, trying (and failing) to go over the upcoming conversation in her head. No, not conversation...Fight? Screaming match? Divorce?

The word left a metallic taste on her tongue and she wanted to throw up.

Divorced.

At 19.

Just like her parents. And her grandparents. And her aunts, and uncles, and a few cousins to boot.

She didn't want to be like them. She wanted to be different.

Divorced.

The door opened softly, and she knew he thought she was in bed. Asleep. Unaware. He was trying to sneak in, unnoticed. He was trying to avoid her, easing the door closed to avoid the creaking of the hinges (he promised to oil weeks ago) and moving, moving slowly, moving quietly, moving cautiously.

He visibly jumps when he sees her, startled by her dejected form sitting at the wobbly kitchen table (he promised to fix weeks ago). She is staring at her hands, refusing to look at him.

And he knows she knows.

But he won't admit it. Not yet.

"Linds, what...are you waiting up for me?" his tone was accusatory and his face contorted in anger (it was his best defense).

"As if you have a right to even speak to me," she replied quietly, still not looking up.

He backpedaled, "I just meant, it's late. You should be in bed, sleeping."

"I'm surprised you're not in bed," she replied coolly, "With Rory."

Hers eyes met his, a look of confusion donning his features.

"Please," she continued, "I know you don't think much of me - that I'm...dumb, and...selfish and spoiled, or, I don't know, blinded by my idealistic love for you," she spat out, standing to confront him, "but did you really think I wouldn't find out?"

"I don't know what you heard, but-"

She heard the clicking of Miss Patty's tongue as she walked passed that morning. She heard the conspiratorial whispers of Babette and Bootsy (Bootsy! of all people) as she bought the latest issue of People Magazine from his stand that afternoon. Slowly, the snippets of conversation fell together, and Lindsay was able to figure out what the big to-do was about. She didn't expect it to involve her.

"But what, Dean? Hmm? It didn't mean anything? You still love me? Or better yet, you love her, and your lawyer will contact mine? Is that what we've become!" she cried out, willing herself to remain strong and keep her tears at bay.

"I do love you Lindsay," he argued, in a 'duh' sort of tone. Duh, I love you. That's why I slept with my ex-girlfriend.

"Please," she did her best to sound bitter, cynical, but it came out more pathetic than she would have hoped. At the sound of her own voice, her own pathetic voice, her anger at him was replaced by anger at herself. Why couldn't she be strong? Why couldn't she hate him?

Why wasn't she good enough?

She surrendered to her tears, to her disappointment, to her fear, and managed to choke out, "So you aren't even going to deny it?"

Dean slowly shook his head.

"Great," she moaned almost incoherently, her voice strangled by her sobs.

She had never been one of those beautiful criers. The ones, who when faced with sudden abandonment, let a lone tear trail down their cheek in the most elegant fashion. There were even people who could do it with multiple tears, streaking down their face silently, gracefully. Lindsay was one who sobbed and choked and gasped for air, tears mixing with snot as they ran down her face and met with her runny nose.

She staggered backwards, her body shaking.

"Just listen to me. Alright?" He reached out to her, and she fought the unexplainable urge to give into his touch.

Instead, she fell back down into the uncomfortable wooden chair (he promised to replace weeks ago). She was too tired to fight him. Just too...tired.

"It was stupid, and it was my fault, and I'm sorry," he sat across her, only concern and guilt written on his face. "I don't know what I was thinking. You and I...we'd been having problems, and I just got overwhelmed. You want me to be in six places at once and can't do that."

(Was he actually blaming her?)

"Rory was just...there," he continued, "and I thought I needed...something. But I was wrong." He looked at her with pleading eyes, leaning closer, holding her hand now. "I just need you, Lindsay."

Visions of her parents messy divorce rush through her mind. Her mother's tears. He father's visits limited to every other weekend. Every other holiday. Visions of her mother's knowing eyes on her wedding day, her reassuring hand on her shoulder, silently asking are you sure about this? And she was. She just wanted...

She just wanted to be different.

She desperately needs to be different.

"Okay" is all she says.

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Notes: "I just need you Lindsay." Oh, can't you imagine Dean looking at her with those big, dumb eyes!

Anyhoo, please, oh please, review! Please! Your reviews are like...the Sonny to my Cher. The Donny to my Marie. The Captain to my Tennille. The Peaches to my Herb. The Duran to my Duran. Could they have made it big without each other? I think not. Your fellow Lit (read: me) needs you!

BTW, has anyone else noticed the sudden spike of Trory fics? Geez, people, Tristin's on One Tree Hill now. Gone. Forever.

What's that? Jess is gone too? Well...I, uh...oh, hush you.

Hypocrite be thy name :)