A/N: well, here I am again, amigos! Ready and willing to sacrifice my sweet time to the cause of this UC. So, a couple of people have noticed the sparks already and I am very excited to see a positive reaction to it! If anybody had reviewed including an 'ew' then I would be distressed – however the only ew's I got were for Jess/Paris. But hey, every cat has their day and …today aint mine. This chapter isn't my favourite, it moves quickly I admit, but it is necessary to get everything going. So sit back and relax, cos this is just a short a/n to thank you for all your reviews and I hope you'll all be writing more because y'all know how much I adore my feedback! So,  happy reading – and remember, "if you don't review, you smell like a ewe"

Chapter Four

Okay, I now resolve NEVER to EVER drink EVER again.

Here and now I state to the world: alcohol is evil.

Rory rolled over in bed and brushed her matted hair out of her eyes.

Wait. Alcohol is worse than evil.

Alcohol is like.. the symbol of all things satanic.

Alcohol is like…

Alcohol Is like the Olsen twins.

She heaved herself up, using her elbows to prop up her body and swung her legs over the side of the bed, ready to stand. The sudden movement made the room swirl underneath her and she collapsed back onto the bed, flopping onto her white sheets with a soft thud.

Oh good god. Somebody must have mugged me with a pick-axe when I was sleeping…

Cos' there is no way in hell somebody can have this big of a headache.

She groaned and slithered off the bed.

Man, how much did I drink last night?

I hope I didn't make a fool of myself.

Note to self: see Lane when resurrected.

She shook her head lightly to rid herself of stars and proceeded to crawl to the shower.

Take a step back.

Most people as they grow older develop a higher tolerance to alcohol, so surely girls like the one we see before us now should be right as rain at this exact moment in time. However, this particular girl is different. Not only did this particular girl grow through her teenage and college years rejecting the kegs and the cocktails for her daily latte – therefore making her what is commonly known throughout society as a 'lightweight', but this little girl consumed a ghastly amount of alcohol the previous night. While she wonders in the shower as to whether she maintained her dignity, we can understand what actually happened. Because we were there. Much to the amusement of the designated driver, Rory Gilmore as we know her, had come undone. The red wine gave her the healthy glow we saw her with last. The after dinner cocktails brightened her eyes and loosened her tongue. Judging from our observations, the vodka shooters are what killed her. As we saw her then, we see her now. Standing under the shower, letting the water cascade over her body, she smiled slightly as she remembers a moment. She strokes her upper arms as she vaguely remembers being carried in someone's arms. The water falling on her suddenly was scalding hot – the old man upstairs having turned on his washing machine. As she struggles to find the perfect temperature, the memory she had was slipping away. She forgets how he puller her closer to him so as to not knock her head against the door frame. She forgets how at that same moment she nestled into him, inhaling his scent. She forgets the warmth she felt inside as she was held close to him. She forgets how the icy air around her became all the more prominent when he put her down and stood to leave the room. She forgets the sarcastic laugh and a smart comment about painkillers for the morning. She forgets her eyes locking with his before he pressed his lips to her forehead and bade her goodnight. She forgets how the same old feeling of emptiness returned to her as he left the room. So, when she goes back to her bed and finds a packet of aspirin on her table, she merely gulps one down – wondering how on earth they got there…

She was sitting in a diner, sighing into a bowl of coffee, when her mobile rang.

Pushing the little green button, she grunted and waited for an answer.

"So," a voice drawled in her ear, "You send me an email from your work office saying that you're being dragged into another blind date at Lanes. You then apparently went to this godforsaken blind date, because when I called at nine you weren't at home hiding for a change. Then, when I called this morning expecting you to be sprawled on your sofa watching cartoons and cramming your face with Cheerio's – ready to whinge to me about your night, you weren't there. So you either met the love of your life and I'm embarrassing you by saying this monologue to you while you are scantily clad – or not clad at all – in a man's bed…or you got totally wasted and are attempting to drown yourself in your coffee mug."

Rory grunted again, this time with more gusto.

"oh you are shameless, Gilmore," he stated.

He began detailing his opinions to his wife - she could practically hear him smirking as he came back on the line.

"I take it the party was fun?" he said, half laughing into the receiver.

She grimaced, his voice beginning to grate her mind, "It was hardly a party, Jess. It was just me, Lane, Dave and Troy."

"And a thousand bottles of spirits, no doubt."

"Don't," she groaned, "I don't ever want to think about alcohol again, ever."

He laughed, "Poor little Rory, you never did have it in you to drink and survive the next morning. Is anybody there with you now?"

"Do you really think I would want people seeing me like this?" She asked, incredulously, "I look like an extra from planet of the apes!"

"The TV show or the Marky Mark Movie?"

She thought for a moment, staring at her reflection in the window, "A combination."

"God, you must look like shit!"

She nodded, still staring out the window in a trance. A passer by caught her eye and pulled a face. Rory rolled her eyes and thudded her head against the glass pane.

"Why is it I always end up whacking my head against something when I'm on the phone to you, Mariano?"

"Because I'm so suave I drive you crazy?"

She grinned sardonically, "You drive me crazy, period."

"So are you going to tell me about last night, or what?"

The morning's minutes crawled by like injured insects. Rory had finished her coffee and had a less opaque view of the world, affirming once more that she would ne'er again know the touch of liquor to her lips. She checked her watch and decided to drift over to the Rygalski residence to thank Lane for the hospitality she abused the night before – also hoping that Lane'd quash any suspicions Rory had about her behaviour under the influence. She meandered down their avenue, marvelling at how the tree's always resembled withered hands at this time of year. Treading on the soggy leaves on the ground, she pulled her turtle-neck up higher over her chin and wrapped her arms around herself – humming softly to herself to a melody she couldn't place. Reaching the Rygalski stoop, she smiled and walked up to the door. She was about to ring the bell when she heard a shout from the inside.

"Oh for God's sake, now you're just being paranoid!"

"Am I? Jesus, Lane, You've been acting strange for months now, how am I supposed to be?"

"Anything but this! Why are you acting like this?"

"Acting like what? How am I supposed to understand if you don't tell me!"

"You're behaving like a child who won't share his tonka truck!"

"'Won't share his tonka truck!' Lane, You are my wife, not some toy!"

"You Could've fooled me!"

"And what is that supposed to mean?"

"I'm just a doll to you!"

"Lane, we're not in an Ibsen play – what the hell?"

"I'm just you're little wife! I'm this little person you can present to people at parties!"

"That is not true!"

"Yes it IS!"

"For one thing – I never go to parties unless you make me. And secondly, You're my wife. You're my friend. I love you."

"Yes, I love you too - but you don't love me."

"I don't understand!"

"You don't want me!"

"Of course I want you!"

"Not in the way you should!"

"I –"

"We never have sex!"

"…A relationship isn't all about sex, Lane."

"Yeah, but if you're in a boring relationship like ours it's bound to HELP!"

The silence lasted for a long time, until Dave's voice was heard – softly, just above a whisper, "Okay."

She heard him take a deep breath, "I don't know what is wrong with you right now. I don't even pretend to understand why you're so unhappy. So, I'm just going to go for a walk. I'll be back sometime later."

The sound of footsteps carried through the door before Lane cried out, "Dave, I didn't mean –"

"Yes, you did. You say what you mean, and that's great, ok? I just need some time to think about this, alright?"

"Sure…"

There was more silence.  Rory began to bob anxiously on the stoop, not knowing whether to hide or stay still. She ran down the small steps and crouched next to a trash can.

Their dark red front door clicked open and she saw Dave take two secure steps out of the house, turn slowly and shut the door calmly. He took another two steps forward and stopped again, taking a deep, steadying breath.

She watched him over the rim of the bin, taking in his ruffled hair (his hands had obviously been running through the strands in frustration), his red-rimmed eyes and his shaking hands. He brought his hands to his face and kneaded his eyes with the heels of his hands. He sighed and walked slowly down the stairs, picking up the wind-blown rubbish from the stairs and stopping at Rory's trash can to dispose of them.

Figuring the game was up, Rory ventured a greeting, "Hi."

He sighed and nodded, not looking the least bit surprised to find her there, "Good Afternoon, Rory. I'm sorry you had to hear that." He turned and continued down the street, never once glancing at her.

She stood and brushed her legs down with her hands, "I didn't, I wasn't, I –"

"Good Afternoon, Rory. Go in and talk to Lane, okay?" he said monotone, striding down the avenue, keeping his dark eyes focused on the horizon.

She nodded mutely, proceeded up the stairs and knocked lightly on the door.

Within mili-seconds the door swung open, with Lane mid-sentence,

"- say things, Dave, I –" she stopped abruptly and frowned, her bottom lip shaking, "oh, Rory!" She leaned forward and pulled Rory into a hug, sighing into her shoulder.

Rory shushed her, rubbing her back and soothing her, "Its okay, Lane. It's alright. Everything is going to be fine," she tailed off, pushing Lane slowly back into the living room. She sat Lane down on the couch and kneeled in front of her, "What's going on, Lane? You guys are meant to be the perfect couple?"

"Oh Rory," Lane spoke wearily, "We were. We really were," she tailed off.

Rory eyebrows knitted together in confusion, "Well, what happened?"

Take a step back.

'What happened?' A simple question generally obtains a simple answer. But in the game of love, nothing is simple – no matter how small or how grand the scale. Rory stumbled upon one of many domestic fights in the Rygalski household. She wasn't to know that the 'perfect couple' had been fighting nearly every day for the past few months 'What happened?' she asks. Who is to say how what once felt so right, now feels too tight around the collar. Who is to say what exactly happens in a relationship to turn it from loving comfort to a dull monotony. As night falls we see Lane and Dave standing together in their lounge room. We see the wild hand gestures and the tears for both of them. The pleading for chances, the wounded glances and the angry kisses that all culminated in one explosive act of passion. Now, whether Dave chose to make love to Lane that night because he wanted to prove a point, or because he genuinely desired her –we cannot know for sure. All we know is what we see. We see the two lying in their bed. One, with her dark hair splayed across her pillow, sleeps soundly and peacefully with a contented smile. The other, sitting next to her in bed, is staring at photos of the past and frowning slightly as he casts his eyes over the faded pictures. The moment is frozen for a long space in time. Dave's eyes glaze over as he continues a mental struggle. He hasn't expected his marriage to Lane to be like this. He wanted something different, something fresh and something exciting – they were kindred spirits…not star-crossed lovers. For Dave, when he fell – he fell hard. The traditional musician, he plays with his heart on his pick, ready to fling himself headfirst from passion to passion – and he thought he had felt that with Lane. He had felt a connection of some form, and went with it. Maybe he misjudged the feelings he had towards her. Maybe he moved too quickly.  Maybe he over-estimated their emotions. Maybe what he thought was love was merely a friendship that got carried too far. But if this wasn't the right love …what was? Where could he find it? …As we leave the scene now, Dave clasps his hands together and prays once more. He could save this marriage. He could. He knew it. But whether he wanted it is a whole different ball game.