A/n: Hey this chapter has been re-done, the former version was WAY cliché… like.. more cliché than this one – and that's SAYING something. NEW chapters will be done soon.

Chapter Five

It's all just one big mess!

How can people live with themselves once they let this sort of thing happen? I don't understand people sometimes.

Rory frowned to herself and pouted.

Can't people just get their act together? I mean really! Everything was going so well and just one person comes along and knocks everything out of place… leading others to think they can do the same!

That, my friend, is what is wrong with this country.

Way too many people willing to give up on a good thing just because it is the easy way out.

She sighed.

Damn it – I had this whole cupboard perfectly colour-coded organised and everything!

Looking around the now chaotic stationary cupboard, Rory growled under her breath.

I've never been a super-fan of disorganisation.

I know, I know – with a mother like mine I'm supposed to be immune to this sort of clutter, but really this is just getting out of hand!

She picked up the pink post-its off the carpet.

Pink is noticeable, right? With big bold letters saying what goes where surely any bozo can put things back where they belong?

Blowing stay wisps of hair away from her face, she crouched and reached under the shelves – hoping to god that there were no rotting animal or insect corpses underneath. The door swung open and a petite blonde with bright purple eyes –

Contacts

-tottered in (the three inch stilettos obviously taking their toll on her balance). She twirled her hair in her fingers and nervously bit her bottom lip,

"Um, Ms. DuGrey?" she bleated, "It's half an hour after my shift ended – can I go home now?"

Rory grunted as she stood up.

What is her name… Tracey? Stacey? Amber? Barbie?

Oops - keep your claws in, Gilmore!

She gave a strained smile, "Yeah, sure," she paused, "Uh, Brittany – you can leave now, that's fine!"

The blonde in front of her narrowed her eyes slightly. "It's Whitney," she deadpanned.

Rory nodded, "I knew that!" She grimaced to herself as Whitney stalked out and slammed the door.

Whitney, Brittany, Barbie – meh, they're all the same anyway!

She pulled the tie from her hair, letting it cascade over her shoulders, and undid the top button of her shirt.

Guess I better be heading off too, then.

Take a step back.

Rory wasn't always this blasé with her work. Back in the days of wedlock, Rory saw each day as a challenge. Each day was a new experience. Each day was a chance to make or develop relationships. So she seized each day. She knew every name of every co-worker. She worked vigorously and passionately into the small hours of the morning. She gazed in wonder around her office, marvelling at the glamour, the prestige and the glory of working in television. But as you grow old, the sparkle fades – that is, unless you live for the job – and Rory didn't anymore. Her childhood dreams of being a foreign correspondent were shattered after her first day under that title. On the set, not only were the backdrops fake, but the people were fake. She needed that authenticity that only she produced within her soul. She yearned for the chance to tell the world about its problems, but the censorship forbade it. The sparkle of her dream was jaded. The dream itself had faded. She was left with reality. A reality that was as dull and cold as the cement city surrounding her.

Tipping her head back gently, she focused on the instant pleasure. The warmth spread from her lips to the very depths of her.

The desire for more was instantly ignited.

Her eyes heavy with want, she gazed at the man in front of her.

"Oh, Bobbo," she moaned, "Give it to me."

"Meez Dugray," the hot-blooded Italian rasped,

"I teenk you had enough ezprezzo for a wedz-day."

Her loose hair brushed the biscotti as she leaned towards him over the counter, grasping his shirt in her tiny fists.

"But I need it," she whined.

Pursing his lips, his thick mustache bristling against his nostrils, the old Italian surveyed his loyal customer.

He noticed the shiny leather purse hanging from her shoulder.

He noticed the designer jeans she's wearing.

He noticed the long, shiny, brown hair.

He noticed the pretty face stretched into a look of despair.

She doesn't look like your everyday addict.

"I'll even get it 'to go' so you won't have to watch me drink it," she cooed, pleading with him.

He sighed.

"Meez, one of deez days, you going to have heart attack," he harrumphed.

"Ah but I'll die happy," she said, dreamily lounging against the cake cabinet, "and really hyper."

He held her drink out to her, "I make you long latte, Take you longer to dreenk, I teenk."

"Slow-Mo Lo…relai, yup – that's me!" She chirped, swiped the coffee from his hands and zipped out the door. The old man inside shook his head as he watched her dart across the busy street.

She ignored the faceless thousands clogging the side-walk, 'all the better to focus on my lover…Mr. Latte!'

Rory zig-zagged through the streets, occasionally draining her thirteenth caffeine-fix of the day. Thirteenth? Lucky for some.

'Enough espresso? I commend the man on his alliteration but surely the whole concept is just wrong! And besides, I haven't had that many today. My eye isn't twitching, my pulse isn't racing, surely I've had under six shots of the goods. It would have to be under six because I only had instant with breakfast and that doesn't count…'

So lost in her ranting soliloquy, she didn't see the friendly, frazzled guitarist emerging from a doorway.

That is, until Lucky Number Thirteen found itself crushed between them, oozing its contents onto her $600 shirt.

"HOT! OH WOW, HOT!" She shrieked, as she pulled the soaked material away from her skin.

"Oh no, I am SO sorry. Totally unintentional 'Notting Hill' moment!" Dave spluttered, searching his battered satchel for something, anything, absorbent.

At the familiar voice, she tore her eyes from her ruined shirt, and glared at her friend.

"Trust you to not only ruin my shirt, but to compare me to Julia Roberts," she tutted, "I'm not sure which one is more unforgivable."

"You're right, you're right," he teased as he passed her a pack of tissues, "you're far more Meg Ryan."

"That would make you Tom Hanks."

"Please, I have far better hair."

Rory laughed lightly, dabbing at her shirt and looking forlornly at the crushed empty cup lying next to her purse on the concrete. Dave followed her eye-line and laughed.

"Ah, Never has there been a tale of more woe," he consoled, putting his arm around her. "C'mon, I'll take you back to our place, we can commiserate Larry-The-Latte's demise over some freshly brewed Freddy Filter. The car's just around the corner."

She sniveled and leaned into him as he steered her to the left. "Oh Larry, we hardly knew ye!"

The sound of Dave's laughter made her feel curiously warmer than Larry ever did… she shook off the feeling.

"Are you cold?" Dave asked, feeling her shudder. "What are you doing walking home on a night like this anyway? You could be mugged!"

She giggled at him, "Don't worry, Dad, I can take care of myself!" Demonstrably, she threw his arm off of her and marched towards the passenger door.

"Hey now, Miss Thing," Dave reproached, "You should be careful! The kids these days-"

"Kids these days?" She cried, incredulously. "Dave, kids have been acting like this for years! I would bet my life that ten years ago Jess was probably attempting to mug snooty-looking women like me!"

"Yeah, well: a) that's just Jess for you,

b) That was in New York! Crime is at its peak there!

And c) You aren't snooty-looking!"

She giggled softly, "well: a) that's my best friend you're talking about, buster!

b) If there can be crime in Stars Hollow, there can be crime anywhere!

And c) Thank you very much!"

They grinned at each other for a moment until Dave's smile wavered and he suddenly became very interested in unlocking the car.

Once inside, he continued to fumble with his keys, then turned the tuner until he found some soft jazz music.

Rory raised her eyebrows, "I didn't know you were a jazz man."

He nodded emphatically, accidentally turning on the windscreen wipers for a moment– all the while avoiding her eyes.

"Hey," she said, touching his shoulder, "are you ok, Dave?"

"What?" he asked, whipping his head from the road, to her, to back again, "yeah, yeah, I'm fine – just dandy, y'know?"

She observed him fidget with the wheel in his fingers.

"Dave, you can talk to me about the other day…what I heard… if you want," she said softly.

He gave her a sideways glance as he churned the car into life. He shook his head and pulled out into the street.

Silence reigned for a moment.

"How are you feeling? Are you feeling better about Larry Latte now? Should we hold a wake, d'you think?"

She rolled her eyes at his obvious subject change, "Maybe It'll help to talk about it?"

He snorted, "Typical female idea – in actual fact, talking brings up memories people would rather forget so in thinking it helps to talk about stuff you're actually doing yourself more harm than good."

She raised her eyebrows at his tone and looked out the window, "well, if it's such a bother to you, don't worry."

Stopping at a red light, Dave thudded his head against the steering wheel before muttering, "Lane and I have different ideals about things, I guess."

When Rory said nothing, Dave took his explanation a step further, "See, Lane," he paused, "Lane wants," he trailed off again.

"What does Lane want?" Rory asked.

"Lane wants something I can't give her," he sighed.

"What would that be?" Rory asked tentatively.

"I don't know" he resigned.

"Ok…"

"Yeah… You see, the more I think about this, the more it becomes confusing. I love Lane. She's great. We've been together since High School. Since the band. Since…" he stopped abruptly, glancing at Rory, and sighed. "I love her. I know I do, I love her."

"So what's happening with you two?"

"She's agreed for us to try again as a couple, which is good. We're hoping it'll all work itself out. I just don't know if she… I love her, but it's not the sort of Love that… I just don't think that I…I can't... I try and try and try to give her what she wants but she is always upset with me!"

He pulled the car up outside his house and ran his hand through his hair in frustration, "I thought I had everything with Lane. I don't know anymore, maybe I was wrong? Whatever, I mean, I don't know. I always had this idea about love, ever since I was little. Love is like a butterfly," he paused, looking at Rory, "and I don't mean that in a traditional Harlequin-Novel-style way. I mean, like, butterflies go through hell to get to where they are. The transformation from a caterpillar to a butterfly is not easy – but the hardest part is getting out of that cocoon. To get out of there they go through this huge struggle, beating their fragile wings frantically against this thick cover in order to be set free and fly. But… they have to go through that struggle – because if they didn't go through the pain of bashing their wings to free themselves, they'd die. They wouldn't have the strength in them to fly. So Love," he swallowed, "Love is similar. You need to have all the experiences that pain you, to be able to reach that height. That Pure love. A true love."

He looked at Rory warily, "I thought I had that with Lane. After all we had to go through to be together… I thought it had to be. But I don't love her like I used to."

Rory's mind was buzzing, "I never knew that."

He smiled sadly, "About butterflies?"

"No. About how passionately you feel about Love."

"Well," he sighed for what seemed the thousandth time that night, "Love is a haunting melody that I have never mastered… And I fear I never will." He looked at her with big eyes, "Sorry, this is probably totally depressing for you – Me warbling on about love and my failing marriage when you're the one who has had this huge traumatic divorce and everything."

"No, don't be sorry," she put her hand on his arm, he glanced at her quickly, "It's good for you to let it out to somebody. I know it's hard, I've been through it. But I do believe that anything less than mad, passionate love is wasting your time. Life has too many mediocre things in it, love shouldn't be one of them...There is one true love out there for everybody – maybe we're both yet to find it. "

He gazed at her for a moment. "Maybe," he whispered. Their eyes locked and neither moved.

A giggle echoed down the street as Dave's front door opened and Lane backed out.

Both Rory and Dave jumped slightly and turned to see, Dave opening his door slightly – ready to jump out.

But he froze and shut the door slowly as he saw Troy follow Lane out of the house.

He froze and sat back in his chair, sighing as he saw Lane kissing Troy lustily before retreating back into the house.

Take a step back.

It is an interesting thing when a heart breaks. Like any other organ in the body there is a possibility of healing. But, again like any other organ in the body, it takes time. Rory – who suffered a great deal of heartbreak from her ex-husband – understands this fact. She knows that when your heart breaks, when you are touched by pain, when love fails, your whole world collapses. She's felt the woes of unrequited love. She's touched the deep black hole you can fall into when your love life falls apart. This is why, when she looks on Dave in this moment, she is confused. She can't see the pain in his eyes. She doesn't hear any cries of anguish. She's missing any sense loss in his movement – for he doesn't move at all. She doesn't understand. He sits calmly, his head cocked to one side, staring at the empty space where his wife and another man were just seen kissing. He doesn't say anything – because there is nothing to say. He just sits with his hand clasping Rory's, his eyes cold and his breathing heavy, but his movement still. Rory gazes at him in confusion – unable to grasp how Dave can sit still and not fight for Lane. Unable to comprehend how a man who just recently spoke of love with such an undertone of desperation, can sit back and let his love slip through his fingers. But again, she doesn't understand. She doesn't appreciate how you can't lose something you never had. What most do not understand is that in love, nobody wins, nobody loses, and nobody is punished; we all just suffer the consequences.