AN: So, I suck. Royally. I don't know who's still reading this, if you are, hats off to you my friend. And even if not, I'm determined to finish this story--it will be done damnit. I'm just not sure how long it'll take. School is my only excuse...at this stage in my life I'm writing for a living and so writing for fun is sort of a rare commodity these days. So there's that. But I'll finish this...I've invested too many plot bunnies in it not to. Thanks to those who are keeping up.

When her eyes open, it is dark outside. The sofa is not quite as comfortable as it seemed hours before, the blanket not enough to warm her against the winter that hovers outside but somehow sneaks in. She slings her legs over the side, pulling herself to her feet with a tired trepidation. There is a foreign smell coming from the kitchen, something that's more than takeout and feels like comfort.

She walks into the kitchen, slowly, almost effortlessly floating in. Jess is cooking, and the vision is so awkward she cannot help but laugh a little. He turns, hooded eyes narrowing. "What?"

"You're cooking," she smiles.

And he thinks he wants to hold onto this memory, the way her eyes are alive and her smile is finally genuine. It's only for a second, but it lingers and he almost feels like reciprocating the gesture. He doesn't; it's not something he's capable of.

"That's funny?"

"It's weird." Rory approaches him, still slightly wary in her movements. She stands on her toes to see over his shoulder, and he can't quite focus because all he feels is her breath on his neck. "But it smells good."

"Hungry?"

"Very."

The staccato conversation is okay for now; it's a little more familiar, a little less controlled.

They eat dinner in silence, and she does not miss the way his gaze is constantly flickering to meet hers, yet she can't bring herself to really look at him. "What?" she drawls.

"It's edible?"

"Oh, yeah it's great. Very edible, in fact."

"Good," he nods.

"What else?" she presses.

He concentrates on his plate, memorizing the patterns. "Nothing."

"Right. Same old Jess."

"What does that mean?"

"Nothing."

And the quiet fills in for the only excuse they have.

He opens the cupboard and the thoughts he refused to articulate hardly an hour before are mocking him, vicious and taunting. The bottom shelf is lined with prescription bottles, her name neatly typed onto endless labels. What's ironic is that there isn't a pharmacist within thirty miles of Stars Hollow.

He glances over to find her still at the kitchen table with a book in hand. With his right hand he gropes for as many of the bottles as his palm can hold, secures them safely within his arms and sets them down in front of her.

She flinches at the sudden intrusion of her space, gaze flinching from the book to the table back to him. "What's this?"

"You tell me."

"They're prescriptions or something, I don't know. Were you going through the cabinets?"

"I was looking for dishtowels."

"Dishtowels are usually in drawers."

Sliding into the chair that faces her, Jess tries to rationalize what she's doing. Whether this is a game of avoidance or sheer naiveté he's not sure of. Either is possible with her; both are probable. Rory looks at him over her book, sheer annoyance and nothing else painted onto her delicate irritation.

"They have your name on them, Rory," he states flatly.

"They're probably my mother's, then," she growls, setting the book down. She pushes back the chair, stands, stumbling back a little. His eyes follow her lead as his fingers wrap around one of the bottles.

"Lorelei Leigh…" he trails off, searching for some semblance of recognition in her face.

"What are you, Hercule fucking Poirot? Jesus, Jess I don't know. I don't even remember, I haven't lived here in what, seven years?"

"They're your pills, Rory."

"Okay, yes, fine, they're my pills. Thank you. Brilliant deduction."

"They're your pills and they were prescribed four months ago."

He finds himself standing, closing the distance between them, overstepping the boundaries of comfort he has spent the past three days so meticulously trying to rebuild. Where they are now is a precarious balance, and he is shattering it, bit by bit.

"I don't know what you're getting at, and you really seem to, so why don't you just say it?"

"She's not in the hospital, is she?"

"What?" Her jaw drops slightly before she laughs, translucent and empty and dead. "Wow, you know Jess, you've always been so good at finding escape clauses but this…"

"Huh?"

"You didn't have to come, you could have said no. You could have stayed in New York."

"Rory, I wanted to—"

"You didn't have to make up some crappy detective game and some even crappier solution so you could get yourself out of staying."

"That's not it." He says nothing more for fear of digging himself a deeper hole.

"Yeah, okay. Go home, Jess."

"Rory…" he shakes his head, wondering how it is exactly that even now he is capable of making her cry, of hurting her in a way that apparently only he knows to do.

"Go."

His hand reaches forward, fingers dancing across her cheek. She turns away, determined not to give him the satisfaction. There is too much history here for this trip to end safely, and she's certain she will finish it prematurely.

"I have to call Jacob."

As always, she is the only one who can shut him down. He freezes, expression stoic. Hurriedly, he removes his hand and does what he does best—makes a quick and efficient exit.