~*~*~

They find the kitten as they're leaving a Waffle House in Topeka. It's three in the morning and all Michael can think about is getting back to their hotel and catching some desperately needed shuteye. Liz and Max are inside paying the bill and arguing good-naturedly (cutely, Michael thinks with disgust) about how much to tip the waitress. Isabel is off at the 24-hour Walmart they spotted while exiting the freeway. She's commandeered the van (with Kyle in it) to go off in search for supplies, because "being on the run is no excuse to not wear deodorant." Michael can think of things he'd rather spend his hard-earned money on than girlie toiletries, but if it gets everyone out of the hotel room for one blessed minute and gives him the opportunity for uninterrupted sleep for once, who is he to complain? He and Kyle have been on a construction job for the past week, and while he's enjoyed having something to do with his time besides stare out a car window, the work is more grueling than he would have expected. He won't risk exposing the group by using his powers – even if he wanted to, Max would hand his ass to him on a platter – so it's been nothing but manual labor for the past six days, and he's tired. It's exhausting being human, even part-human. All he wants to do is get back to his lumpy hotel bed, Maria curled up next to him under the blankets, and drift off into unconsciousness.

He's halfway across the parking lot when Maria puts her hand on his forearm. "Do you hear that?" she says, tilting her head to the dumpsters on the side of the restaurant.

He goes tense, still, listening to the sound of the night around them. They've been on the run for six months, and while nothing has happened, the fear of being caught still hangs over them like a cloud. He wakes up in the middle of the night, shaking, picturing Maria shot with a bullet intended for him, or Max or Isabel. Over and over and over she falls, but then he's awake and shivering and she's there, kissing the back of his neck and whispering soothing sounds in his ear. But they've been lucky so far, he thinks, and soon enough—

Meow.

He hears a cat cry plaintively and relaxes. He doesn't particularly like cats, but they're decidedly less worrisome than another alien or the FBI. The cat keeps mewling as it slinks out from behind the dumpster, and Michael preemptively says "C'mon, Maria, let's get back." But Maria walks toward the cat and crouches down in front of it.

"Hey, hey there," she says, reaching out to scratch it behind the ears. The cat flinches then relaxes, leaning into her hand. "Where do you belong, huh?" Maria gently lifts the cat up off the ground. "She's really thin," she says over her shoulder to Michael. "She probably hasn't eaten for days."

"She? How do you – oh," he finishes lamely as Maria pointedly looks first at him and then down at the cat's midsection. "Fine, it's a she. But since she is neither human nor alien, I suggest we just go our separate ways, live and let live, y'know?"

"I think she's a calico," she says, ignoring him. "See these gray and brown splotches here? Sean used to have one when we were kids. He hated that cat, actually, but I loved her. I always wanted one," she finishes simply, not pleading, just looking him straight in the eye.

He gives in, because with her it seems he can do nothing else. "She sleeps in the van," he says shortly, turning to walk to the hotel. He hears quickened footsteps behind him and feels a small hand slip into his. He looks down at her, the cat cradled in her left arm and a small smile on her face.

"Thank you," she says softly, squeezing his hand.

Three days later, they've moved on to Missouri and Michael has retracted his opinion of The Cat. As far as he's concerned, the damn thing is more evil than the whole of the FBI and the residents of Antar combined. The Cat – capitalized in his mind to emphasize its evilness – has it out for him, he's sure of it. Sure, she loves Maria and Liz, and will snuggle up in their laps for hours on end while they're on the road. She'll even rub against Max's leg when it's mealtime, knowing the sap will give her some scraps off his plate. But if Michael so much as lays a finger on her, she hisses and swipes at him with her paw. He's found three pairs of his socks in shreds just this morning, which sucks when he only had five to begin with.

"It's not her fault!" Maria yells at him as they clamber out of the van at a rest stop. "She's just a kitten, she doesn't know what she's doing."

Michael follows her as she storms over to the row of vending machines. "Then why am I the only one with shredded socks? Face it, Maria, your new pet hates me."

"And with such a charming personality, who could blame her," Maria says sardonically, rolling her eyes as she punches a button on the soda machine.

"So now this is my fault."

"I'm just saying, I'm not exactly feeling the warm fuzzies for you these days either. You've been unbearable since we left Kansas."

"Like you've even had time to notice. You've been mothering that thing nonstop for the past three days."

Maria laughs, her oh my god I can't believe how idiotic you are laugh. "You're jealous."

"No, I'm not. Just pissed off."

She crosses her arms and leans against the wall, still laughing. "Oh, baby, you're jealous of a cat? That's potentially very sweet or very pathetic, I can't decide."

He holds up his hands in surrender. "You know what? Forget it. You're right, I'm wrong, the cat's an angel. I'm going for a walk." He turns and storms off.

When he returns a half-hour later, Max tells him they've decided to double back to the campsite they passed and set up for the night. Michael sits stonily in the passenger seat, ignoring the chatter around him. When they get to the campsite, he helps set up the tent without complaint. He and Kyle are stacking wood for the fire when Maria's voice rings out from the van.

"Michael Guerin, I swear to everything that is holy, when I get my hands on you—"

"What did I do?" he yells back.

"Where the hell is she? And don't lie to me," she says, her eyes flashing dangerously as she turns to face him.

"The cat? Isn't she in the van?"

"If she was in the van do you think I'd be asking you where the hell she was? She's gone."

"Look, I'm sure she just jumped out while we were unloading. Cats do that."

"Right. Like you didn't give her a little help with that. You just couldn't stand that I could have anything in my life that I loved besides you, could you?"

He feels the anger rising up, threatening to boil over. "I didn't touch your damn cat!" he shouts.

"Well, you certainly won't be crying now that she's gone, will you," she says flatly, stalking off in the direction of the campsite's restrooms.

"You're right about that," he calls after her, tossing the wood in his hands down onto the pile and walking off in the opposite direction. He's just reached the tree line when her words come back to him, resonating in his head.

You just couldn't stand that I could have anything in my life that I loved besides you.

He wants to deny it, but knows at some level that she's right. Since the moment he met Maria DeLuca, she's been the center of his world, the thing he's needed more than anything. He's given up his chance to leave Earth to stay with her, because he can't picture a life without her in it. And whenever she's given an indication of needing something more than he can give her, whether it's music or romance or a normal life, he hasn't known how to deal. He wants to be as important to her as she is to him, but he can't tell her that.

"Meow," the tree next to him says. He shakes his head to clear it, wondering if he's finally gone crazy, before glancing down and narrowing his eyes. The cat is there at the base of the tree, scratching happily at the roots. She lifts her eyes to meet Michael's, and as stupid as it is, Michael feels like she's staring him down with those golden eyes.

"Look. We don't like each other." The cat doesn't even blink. "But you're really important to Maria, so you're coming back whether you like it or not." He bends down and scoops the cat up in one swift movement, the cat yowling as she's lifted off the ground. She swipes at his shoulder, ripping a small tear in his t-shirt.

"Yeah, yeah, I hate you too," he says grimly, extending his arms so the cat can't reach him as he walks back.

Maria is sitting sullenly by the now-blazing fire when he comes back to the campsite. Michael watches her for a second before dropping the cat unceremoniously on the ground. She scampers over to the fire and circles around Maria's legs. Maria glances down, her face lighting up. "Hey, sweetie," she coos, reaching down to pet the cat's fur. She looks up and catches Michael's eye, her expression indescribable. She scoops the cat up and sets her gently on Liz's lap before standing up and crossing to where he's standing.

"Michael…" she says, before shaking her head. Rising up on tiptoe, she presses a swift kiss to his lips. "I really love you sometimes," she says simply, grabbing his hand and leading him back to the fire. He sits on the low log and she settles in between his legs, leaning back against his chest. They watch the fire crackle and spark in silence, his arms around her and their hands entwined.

She's lost everything, left her home, her family, because of him. Because she loves him, although he still can't quite figure out why. So if he can do something, anything, to give her some semblance of normal again, he's going to do it.

Even if it means living with a damn cat.

end

~*~*~

Twelve past two in the morning, and she's lying stock still, staring up at the ceiling. He's face down beside her, fast asleep, his breathing deep and even. In the corner of her eye she can see his back rise and fall with every breath. She wishes she didn't know how many breaths he takes per minute. She wishes she could go back to the time before Pacey Witter kissed her, before her mind was crowded with thoughts of his eyes and his sarcastic grin and the way he's always been there for her completely, the way no one else has. She wants him to roll over and take her in his arms, cradle her head against his shoulder until she falls asleep, until the rhythm of her breathing matches his. She wants, and she hates him a little bit for that.

It's coming up on four when he lifts his head groggily off the pillow, peering into the darkness. Disoriented for a moment, he spots the sleeping bags on the floor and remembers where he is. He glances down to see Joey lying on her side facing him, her arm curled under her pillow. He takes in the way her eyelashes fan against her cheek, the way her lips part slightly in her sleep. A lock of hair lies across her face, and his fingers itch with the urge to push it back behind her ear. He settles for gently pulling her bathrobe back onto her shoulder, to ward against the chill in the air. She shifts slightly and he freezes, but she only lets out a faint snore and burrows deeper into her pillow. He is utterly fascinated. As he drops back down onto his pillow with an inaudible groan, he knows without a doubt that he is also utterly doomed.

It's seven-thirty and they're both awake, but neither makes a move to leave the warm cocoon of the bed. He's sitting up, watching her, and she knows it. She can feel his eyes on her, feel his arm brush up against her shoulderblade as he leans over.

Joey shivers a bit at the feeling of his touch and thinks, this is where it starts.

end

~*~*~

Juliet, the dice was loaded from the start – Dire Straits

"Tell me about Romeo and Juliet," he says, and she smiles and begins to talk. She likes how he concentrates on her, even when she's babbling incessantly about things she knows he doesn't care about. She watches him smile and tease in response, and a small part of her wonders if maybe Sookie was right. But the next day he growls at her when she orders a gallon of coffee, and it's all too easy to revert to routine. She works and watches movies with Rory and goes to the diner twice daily, and when her mother asks her during Friday night dinner if she ever intends to date "that man from the diner," she ignores the miniscule voice in her head that says hey, yeah. What about Luke? Even though she flirts with him and thinks he'd look incredibly hot as Dr. Frank-n-Furter (a thought she plans to take to her grave), she never allows herself to seriously consider him.

She knows there have been moments and glances and almosts; she's not a stupid woman. He buys her basket and then replaces its contents with actual edible food, and they eat and talk and for one second, she thinks maybe. But then Christopher blows back into town with a new girlfriend, a new lease on life, and she's too busy being miserable that he's so settled, so together, that she can't really think about anything else. She looks up at Luke after Chris storms out of the diner, away from her, and quickly looks away. He walks over, looks down at her, and repeats his offer of bagel hockey. "I'm no Schmidty, but I can get by," he says sincerely, and she responds with a watery chuckle and a smile that she knows doesn't reach her eyes. She looks at him and thinks maybe she sees something there, an invitation, an offer beyond a round of bagel hockey. Maybe if she asked, he'd take her hand and lead her back to the crowded, dusty storeroom and make her forget; crowd her head with touches and whispered words until she can't remember anything but the feel of his hands on her skin. But she won't ask, because she doesn't do well with maybes.

One night when she can't sleep, she wraps herself in her quilt and stuffs her feet in fuzzy bunny slippers and slips out onto her front porch. Curled up on the bench outside, listening to the night sounds, she wonders why all her maybes never come to anything. Like she told Luke, she has her definites in her life, the things that she can always count on. Rory is and always will be the greatest gift life could have given her. Sookie is as close as a sister; in fact, this whole town feels like an incredibly weird, yet close knit family. And none of that will ever change. It's the maybes, the what-ifs, that get her into trouble. Her definites and her maybes just don't mix. She's learned that the hard way, with Max. Trying to turn that hazy, vague idea of marriage into a defined, flesh and blood thing - it wasn't pretty, it hurt them both, and she knows the failure was her fault. And this is why she won't let Luke become anything but a vague possibility. He's already part of her world; he's her good friend Luke, the one she runs to with everything. She can't risk losing him, and she's certain she will if she dwells too long on the maybe of it all. Better to keep things how they are. It's safe that way, comfortable.

Somehow, she's forgotten her innate ability to fuck things up, no matter the circumstances.

She loses him to stupid, cruel, thoughtless words. She's belittled his need to take care of his family and questioned the one thing he's never wavered on - his love for Rory. As much as she tries, she can't fix that with Garfield stationery. When he bothers to glance her way at all, he looks at her like they haven't known each other for six years, like she's never cried on his shoulder or driven him to the brink of his patience, like he's never built her a chuppa or offered to pay for the repairs to her house or helped her look for that stupid bird. He looks at her like they've never met before in their lives, and he talks to her the same way. She's not lying when she says she wants the old Luke back. This Luke is breaking her heart, though she won't admit it.

With Christopher, she chooses to believe in possibilities again. Maybe she can make this one thing work. Maybe she and Chris and Rory really can be a family, just like she'd once dreamed of, in the back of her mind. She doesn't realize her mistake until he walks away the day of Sookie's wedding, leaving her to curse her own stupidity. God damn it, Lorelai. You really just never learn.

And then Sookie is married and Rory is gone and she's alone, more alone than she's ever been, and she can't run to Luke, because she's burned that bridge in a spectacular fashion. He's in her dreams more than she cares to admit, that summer. It's not all about romance and marriage and twins; most nights she dreams that she's sitting in the diner, watching him work. He doesn't even notice her, just goes about his business, and that in itself is scarier than the wackiest dream, because she knows it's the closest thing to the truth.

The first Friday night dinner of the summer is a bust, as expected. She sits and listens as her parents expound on how Lorelai has screwed up, yet again. On the drive home, she tries to ignore the part of her that agrees with them, that says she's missed her chance to have "the whole package". She can think of only one person to make the voices stop, and that's why she pushes open the door of the darkened, empty diner. She knows she has no right to ask him for anything, but she's desperate enough for forgiveness or comfort or absolution that she'll pretend to be a different person, if he'll say what she wants to hear. Which he does. "You'll get it," he says. She wishes she could be so certain. She wishes she could press him for answers, ask him how he's so damned sure, but tonight is not the night for interrogation. She came in as Mimi and leaves as Lorelai, and things with Luke are more or less stable again. She eats her donut when she gets home, and thinks of him.

Lorelai doesn't know what to think the first time she meets Nicole. She watches Luke, clean-shaven, leather jacket wearing Luke, as he begins this relationship, and it bothers her more than she thinks it should. She wants to be happy for him, and outwardly she is. She's with Alex and then she's not, and then Max happens again, and all the while Luke's with Nicole. He's meeting her parents and letting her make changes to the menu; he's letting her into his life. Lorelai's unsettled by it all, but she hides it well. He's still her friend Luke, the one who teaches her to fish, the one who lets her crash at his apartment and use his kitchen when the Inn catches fire. That doesn't have to change, she convinces herself. She manages to smile and tell him goodbye before he leaves on his cruise and she heads off to Europe, because she has no right to do what she'd like to do. It's not her place to ask him to stay.

When he tells her he's married, she wishes she'd asked him anyway.

She's horrified when he tells her about the marriage, relieved when he follows that up with the news of the divorce. He helps Rory move into Yale and she cheers on the inside. She was thisclose to losing him again, but here he is, arguing with her about the stupid mattress and lending her his truck and just being Luke, her Luke. And if she thinks it's unfair to call him her Luke, unfair to lay claim to a man she's already decided a hundred times over not to get involved with...well, she tries not to think about that. But it's hard to avoid when she finds out that Nicole and Luke have reconciled, that they're trying to make something out of their marriage. Because he doesn't belong with Nicole, damn it. His life is here, in Stars Hollow, in the diner. Not in some townhouse in Litchfield. And she can see that, even if he can't.

It's dark and blessedly quiet the night they break the bells, and he's standing so close, and she thinks that maybe, if she finds the right words, he'll stay. Maybe he'll realize that she needs him here, needs him in a way that she's never fully understood. But all she can say is "I don't want you to move," and she knows that's not enough, because he's not hers to keep. He might have been, once, but she's thrown that opportunity away, and she's not sure she'll ever get it back.

She's with him when he learns about the sock man, and it's all too easy to be angry on his behalf. She wonders how on earth Nicole could choose someone else over Luke; how she could hurt such a good man. But the tiny voice in her head, the one that will not shut up no matter what she does, points out all the times she's done the same thing, reminds her that she really should be talking to her own reflection.

He sends his divorce papers at Mailboxes, Etc., which she protests on principle. But she's happy, even though she doesn't quite know why. Maybe it's the same reason she's not shattered after the breakup with Jason. Maybe it's because she's lying awake at night and contemplating possibilities again.

Luke invites her to his sister's wedding, and when he asks her to dance, she hears something in his voice, something that might have always been there, if she'd only learned to pay attention. She's cradled in his arms as they turn to the slow beat of the music, and when he draws her closer, she thinks they could be like this forever.

It's barely a week before they're arguing again, standing on the porch of the Dragonfly. But this is different, somehow, from all the fights and bickering matches they've had in the past. Things are changing, she can feel it. "Will you just stand still?" he says, exasperation in his voice, and she does. He kisses her, and it's better than she ever imagined; it's enough to make her wish desperately for this maybe to come true. Maybe she really can do this. Maybe she can take this step, let Luke into her life, her heart.

Luke's gone before she can really grasp the situation, before she has more than two kisses and years of almosts and maybes to take into consideration. He leaves for Maine just after Rory leaves for Europe, and she's alone, again. She misses him, but at the same time there's this anticipation of his return. She gets used to hearing his voice on the other end of the line just before she settles in to sleep, which she takes as a good sign. It's the beginning of something, and if nothing else, she's always been good at beginnings. They talk almost every day that he's gone, nearly seven weeks. When he comes back, it's different, awkward, but in a way she feels like it's right, too. New relationships are supposed to be awkward and slightly exciting. They're right on track, she thinks.

He finally asks her out on a real date. She jokes about glass slippers and Some Kind of Wonderful, but it's not a joke, is it? When they're together at Sniffy's Tavern and he pulls out the scrap of paper, the one he's saved for eight years because she told him to, she realizes somewhere in her mind that this is a fairytale. It might not be Sleeping Beauty complete with a kiss from Prince Charming, but when your best friend in the world admits, in his own way, that he's been in love with you for the better part of a decade, you can't help but recognize the simple magic in that.

The first moment of panic comes when he fixes her breakfast at her place. Maybe it's too eerily close to her long-past dream, maybe somewhere deep down she really does love the diner's décor and homey atmosphere, she doesn't know. But she launches into this explanation about "I don't want to lose my cooking Luke," which, loosely translated, means this house is mine and Rory's space alone, and letting someone this far in is much too close for comfort. She doesn't like to think of herself this way, but she knows to a certain extent she distances herself from people, even her closest friends. They're used to the whirlwind that is Lorelai Gilmore, the woman who goes a mile a minute and talks at twice that speed, always handy with a quip and a smile. This house is where she can drop the act, where she can be quiet and still and not feel pressured to be everything to everyone. She's finally realizing how huge this thing is, being with Luke. He's already so intricately involved in her life, every aspect of it, that bringing him into her home seems so much like breaking down that final wall.

This absolutely terrifies her, but she won't admit it, not even to herself.

Her parents disapprove of Luke on principle, because he wasn't born with a trust fund and doesn't belong to a country club. He's a small town man through and through, firmly grounded in Stars Hollow, and while there's something beautiful about that in her eyes, Lorelai knows how that comes across to Richard and Emily. Her mother demeans him every time they speak, and Lorelai doesn't say word one on the subject. She knows she could say how much Luke has done for her in the past eight years, how he's the most decent man she's ever met and cares for her daughter as much as she herself does. She should say these things, she knows. But she keeps silent. If she were to make the effort, to defend her relationship with Luke to her parents, that would make all of this far too real. And she's not ready for that, as much as she knows she should be. So she says nothing, and comforts herself with the litany of excuses she's always used – it's none of their business. She's keeping her Stars Hollow life separate from her family life, as she's always done, and there's nothing wrong with that.

And there's nothing wrong with spending time with Christopher, either. His father's just died and he's hurting and above everything, he's always been a part of her life, even before Stars Hollow became the center of it. They're old friends more than anything; they have a history of which Luke only knows the bare details. She's had him and let him go a hundred times, and she's been there for every major moment of his life, even if he's not so good at returning the favor. And if she wants to have a drink with her old friend to commemorate the father that he hated and loved his whole life, then that's nobody's business but hers. Luke doesn't need to know. Building her an ice rink doesn't mean he's any more entitled to this information, in her opinion. So she stamps out the feeling of guilt in the pit of her stomach and glides smoothly around the ice, feeling his eyes on her all the time. Watching, as he's always done.

He buys her a television. She drifts to sleep with Jon Stewart on the screen and Luke's breathing next to her ear. She turns her head slightly to glance at his sleeping face. "You really are too good for me," she says softly, brushing back a lock of hair from his forehead and pressing a kiss to his stubbled cheek. Luke stirs slightly, but doesn't wake. Lorelai closes her eyes and thinks maybe. Maybe tomorrow, she'll stop guarding herself from him. Maybe she'll quit holding back.

Or maybe he'll realize what she already knows - she doesn't deserve him. She's lied to him about a million things, and she sees all of them reflected in his eyes. She's never told him why she's been holding back, why she's never fully let him in. And she's lied to him about Christopher, and despite all her justifications to herself, there's nothing worse she could have done. She sees it in his eyes just before he turns and walks out of the reception hall.

She doesn't do well with maybes. She thinks he gets that now.

Lorelai realizes too late that she doesn't want him to be one of her failures. She wants him to be the dream that comes true; she wants the beginning and middle and end of this story, but she doesn't know how to tell him that. She's never been good with words when he's around. She pushes too hard, as she's always done, and he snaps, which is new. He storms out of Doose's, and her heart constricts in her chest. She's lost him, this time for good.

Tell me about Romeo and Juliet, she hears him say in her head as she turns on the darkened street and looks back at the diner. She thinks she could tell him one hell of a tale, if they're ever together in the right place and time. It happened like this. Romeo waited eight years to go after what he wanted. He watched his Juliet, watched and waited as she lived her life, loved and lost, all the while ignoring the man behind the counter. Juliet knew what Romeo wasn't saying. She's a sharp one, that Juliet. She could see it in his eyes after every almost, every moment. But she said nothing. She was scared; she knows that now. And she never stopped being scared, even after Romeo made his move, even after they started...whatever it was they had. He was all in, and she was still stuck back at "maybe".

"I'm not scared anymore," she whispers to no one in particular. Maybe he'll hear her and come running down the stairs, out the door and onto the street.

She turns toward home, pulling her sweater tighter around her chilled body.

Maybe he won't.

end

~*~*~

"Time stands still, and I hope for better things to come." – The Time Traveler's Wife

The day is as perfect as they all could have hoped. Not a cloud in the sky, not a drop of rain on the day that Bill Weasley takes Fleur Delacour to be his wife, to have and to hold…Harry can't remember the rest, but he definitely recalls the end. "Till death do us part," pretty difficult to forget. The reception is in full swing as he sips his Butterbeer and idly wonders if he'll ever be able to promise "till death do us part" to anyone. He's not sure it means much when there's someone in the world who would gladly kill him at any moment. He wonders if it's perhaps the thought that counts, before shaking his head of all thoughts of marriage altogether.

Harry watches from his seat as Ron trips over his own feet on the dance floor, stepping on Hermione's shoe in the process. Ron steps back and throws up his hands in an I can't do this gesture, which only makes Hermione roll her eyes and grab his hands. She puts the left one at her waist, places her hand on the back of Ron's neck, and they start again. Harry can see Hermione's lips move in time to the music; he'd bet anything she's counting out the beats for Ron. He notes with amusement that Ron seems to catch on quickly, because by the end of the song he's spinning Hermione out and pulling her back in. Hermione's infectious laugh rings out over the crowd, reaching Harry's ears. When Ron spins her out and back in a second time, she collides into his chest and they stand stock still for a moment before Ron cracks a grin, and then it's all over. Ron cradles Hermione's head as she leans her forehead on his shoulder, both of their bodies shaking with uncontrollable laughter. Harry can't help but laugh with them, his heart bursting to see his two best friends so happy in such a dark time. They've all fought so hard, for so long, that a day like this isn't just well-deserved, it's necessary. They all need to be reminded what they're fighting for.

Harry's gaze drifts from Ron and Hermione to the main table, where Bill is trying, unsuccessfully, to shove a piece of cake into Fleur's perfectly made up face. Fleur's eyes flash dangerously and Harry is reminded uncomfortably of how vicious he knows veela women to be, but before he can blink she's turned the tables and smashed the cake in Bill's face. Bill blinks, dumbfounded, before snatching her at the waist and leaning in to kiss her. She leans away from him, laughing and shrieking in protest, which only makes him rub his cake-covered cheek against hers. Fleur just smiles and gives in, wrapping one hand around Bill's neck and cupping his face with the other. They kiss, and before Harry looks away he sees her fingers unconsciously caress the scar that runs from Bill's temple to his mouth. Some scars can never be healed; Harry knows that all too well. But any survivor has his own scars, his own story to tell, and Bill Weasley is nothing if not a survivor.

"It's just a scar after all, isn't it. Nothing all that special." Her index finger runs down Harry's forehead, tracing the zigzag path of his scar.

"You have more admirable qualities than anyone I know," she says quietly, and he kisses her head in response.

Harry shakes his head free of memories and slides his gaze to the end of the main table. Molly Weasley is leaning her head against her husband's shoulder, also watching her son and his bride. She's smiling as a tear slides down her cheek, and Harry thinks with a smirk that if Molly Weasley and Fleur Delacour can come to terms, there might be hope for the world after all.

"Perfectly disgusting, aren't they?" Ginny says cheerfully, dropping into the chair next to him.

He turns his head to look at her as she nods to Bill and Fleur. "Nah, just happy, I'd say."

"Yeah, disgustingly happy."

"Well, maybe a little," he agrees with a chuckle. "How've you been?"

"Fine, fine. I'm possibly failing every subject since Hermione's not there to proof my homework, but what can you do?" she says with a grin and a shrug of her shoulders.

Harry, who knows that Ginny is much cleverer than she gives herself credit for, merely rolls his eyes. "Sure."

"I'm serious! Hogwarts just isn't the same without you three and…"

"Dumbledore," Harry finishes somberly.

"Yeah. McGonagall's been brilliant, it's not that, but every time I walk past her office I get the feeling that something is dreadfully wrong. Like he's just on vacation, that he'll be back to Hogwarts any moment, you know?"

"I know. I miss him too."

"I know you do," she says, her dark eyes sympathetic. She leans closer to him and drops her voice as she asks, "so, how's everything going with you? What have you found out?"

"Not enough," Harry says, dropping his voice to match hers. "We have some clues, but nothing's coming together just yet."

"You'll get it," she says confidently.

"How can you be so sure?" he asks.

"Haven't you heard? I have the Sight. Trelawney told me. Runs in the family, she said." Ginny closes her eyes and waves her hands in front of her. "I see you defeating your enemies and living to the ripe old age of 43, at which point you will be run over by the Knight Bus."

"Well, at least there's a plan," Harry deadpans, and they both laugh for a moment.

Ginny pushes a tendril of flaming red hair behind her ear as her eyes turn serious. "I've always had faith in you," she says sincerely. "That's never changed."

"I know," Harry says, fiddling with the label on his bottle. "Ginny, I—"

Ginny shakes her head firmly. "Nope. Not today, Potter. Today, my brother is married and everyone's happy, and I don't want to think about anything besides getting you on the dance floor."

Harry leans back and crosses his arms over his chest. "Well, that's certainly not happening."

"Harry, Harry, Harry, need I remind you that five of my big brothers are here today? I'm the baby. They dote on me. I get anything I want."

"One of them happens to be my best friend," Harry replies, arching his eyebrow as if to say what do you think of that?

"Dance with me or I'll have Fred and George slip you a Canary Cream in your sleep," she threatens.

Harry sighs, pretending to be annoyed as he gets on his feet. "When you put it that way," he says, holding his hand out to her. She grasps it and stands, and he leads the way to the floor.

They settle on a spot and Ginny turns into Harry's arms, resting her hands on his shoulders. He thinks she fits there more perfectly than she really should, but he says nothing as they sway to the slow beat. He remembers all his reasons for pushing her away, but it's moments like this when he wonders if he made the right choice. If maybe being with her might be worth the risk. But the risk is her life, and that's one chance he won't take. So here they are again, and nothing's changed except for this fact – they've never danced together. It's their first dance, and it might be their last, but Harry knows either way that he'll remember this as long as he's breathing. He thinks this might be as close to "till death do us part" that he'll ever get.

"What are you thinking about?" she asks, slipping a hand to the back of his neck.

"Nothing and everything," he replies honestly, pulling her a little closer. "You?"

"Same."

"Yeah."

They dance until the song ends, breaking apart only when Mrs. Weasley calls for a toast. They return to their table, turning their attention to the mother of the groom. When Mrs. Weasley finishes with "to the happy couple," Harry feels a small hand slip inside his. His fingers tighten instinctively around Ginny's as their family and friends raise their glasses and toast to the future.

end

~*~*~

The first time Ryan Atwood tried to use the stove, he nearly burned the house down.

It was almost ten in the morning and he was starving; he hadn't had much to eat the day before, because it was the weekend and things like lunches were only guaranteed on school days when you ate because the teachers made you. It was Sunday and his mom was still asleep, and Ryan could only guess where his older brother Trey was. Probably staying at Arturo's, maybe out getting in trouble, he never knew with Trey. He was fourteen years old to Ryan's eleven, but Ryan spent more time checking up on Trey than Trey did being the responsible older brother.

So Trey was gone and Dawn was sleeping, and Ryan really needed something to eat. A quick rummage of the nearly-bare cupboards yielded a dented can of tomato soup. Miraculously, he also managed to find a can opener he hadn't even known they owned. Must have been left over from Fresno when they moved, he decided as he skimmed the directions on the back of the can. He got the stove burner lit and had the soup simmering in a saucepot in no time. He hummed a tuneless song as he stirred the thick soup with a wooden spoon. Not so difficult, this cooking thing.

A shout from the back of the house startled him. He stood stock still, straining his ears to hear what was going on. He could only make out muffled words, so he abandoned the pot and crept toward the hallway, the spoon clattering to the stovetop unnoticed. He heard his mom's boyfriend of the moment shouting and a crash which sounded like something got pushed over. A door slammed with a bang and the guy – Ryan couldn't remember his name – stormed through the living room, not even noticing Ryan as he headed for the front door.

"Oh my god!" Ryan heard his mom shout as she entered the room, and it was only then that he smelled the smoke coming from behind him in the kitchen. He turned to find flames leaping up from the burner. Without a second thought he leapt for the control and turned the burner off while Dawn grabbed a glass of water to dump on the still-flaming wooden spoon. The fire extinguished, they both ran for the living room, coughing due to the smoke. When they were on the front porch, Dawn grabbed Ryan in a fierce hug.

"Ry, baby, are you okay? What were you thinking?" She pulled back to look at him, and for the first time he noticed the bruising under her right eye. Uncomfortable but unwilling to point it out, he just shrugged his shoulders and said, "I was hungry."

She looked like she might cry, but instead gathered him up in another hug. "We'll go get McDonald's, okay?" she said, her breath ruffling the hair on his head. He just squeezed her back and wondered if he'd have to scorch another saucepan to get a hug like this from his mom. It wasn't that she didn't love him, and he knew that, but displays of affection were hardly part of the day-to-day Atwood existence. It was a nice change, he thought, even if he had to cause a fire to get it.

~*~*~

The night was as chilly as it ever gets in California, the stars glittering coldly as he bundled up in his bathrobe and snuck from the pool house to the kitchen door. Slipping inside and shutting the door behind him, he nearly jumped a foot in the air when he saw Kirsten sitting at the table in the dark.

"Hey," Ryan said once his heartbeat had returned to normal. "I didn't think anyone would be in here."

She smiled wearily up at him. "Couldn't sleep."

"Me either," he says, crossing to the refrigerator.

"Plus, Sandy snores."

"So does Seth. Must run in the family."

"That's all Cohen. Us Nichols are much too dignified." She crossed her arms around her midsection as if to ward against the cold. Ryan, who had been reaching for a soda, switched tacks and pulled the milk out of the fridge.

"Can I make you some hot chocolate or something?" he asked.

"Depends. Will you let me help?"

"Nope."

"Obi-Wan has taught you well," Kirsten said with a smirk. "But yeah, I'd love some."

Kirsten was silent as Ryan mixed the cocoa and milk. He laid a few spoons and a bag of marshmallows on the table before grabbing the mugs out of the microwave and sitting in the chair opposite Kirsten.

Kirsten raises an eyebrow at the marshmallows. "Two years and you still surprise me, Ryan."

"I'm a mysterious guy," he deadpanned.

"You are at that."

"So," he said as they stirred the marshmallows into their cocoa, "are you happy to be home?"

"I am," she replied, taking a sip. "Look, Ryan, I said some pretty terrible things to you before I left."

Ryan shook his head. "No, please, don't even think about that. It was a tough time for all of us."

Kirsten raised a hand in protest. "Let me finish. I just want you to know that I didn't mean any of it. You're part of my family as much as Seth is; I love you like a son, and I hope you know that."

Ryan gulped down some of the hot chocolate in lieu of a response. After a moment of silence, he said, "we're all glad you're back. Really glad."

"Not as glad as I am to be back," she said. "I missed my boys."

Ryan thought he liked the sound of that. My boys.

Kirsten drained the rest of her mug and stood. "Thanks for the hot chocolate," she said, ruffling Ryan's hair and leaning down to press a kiss to his temple. "Don't stay up too late," she said as she straightened and carried her mug to the sink.

"I won't," he replied. " 'Night, Kirsten."

"Goodnight, Ryan."

He sat for a few moments after she left, his fingers idly stirring the chocolate left in his mug. He could still feel her hand on his hair.

~*~*~

Ryan didn't make it to Chicago until after graduation. He'd mostly decided on UCLA, but he'd been accepted to Northwestern as well and Kirsten and Sandy had made such a big deal out of it that he'd agreed to come visit the campus. After the official tour, he was left with an afternoon of nothing to do, hours of free time until the prospective freshmen dinner that night. Reaching into his pocket, he fingered the scrap of paper there, the one with the telephone number that he'd never gotten up the nerve to call. But what the hell, right? They were in the same zipcode and all his excuses sounded a little too thin. So he grabbed his cell phone and dialed, shutting his eyes when her voice came on the line.

"Hey, it's, uh, Ryan."

An hour later, he was sitting on the steps of the student center when he heard his name. He turned his head to see her coming toward him, a huge grin on her face. He hadn't seen Lindsay Gardner in over a year, but she hadn't changed much.

He stood up to greet her as she came closer. "Hey, you," she said, tossing her arms over his shoulders in a friendly hug. Her red hair flew haphazardly around them as he returned the hug.

"Lindsay, hey," he said, smiling down at her as she pulled back. "How are you?"

"Surprised as hell to see you," she responded cheerfully. "But other than that, I'm great."

"Yeah? You like Chicago?" he asked as they started walking.

"Well it's not Newport, but then, nothing is, right?" she said, rolling her eyes.

"Right," he replied with a chuckle. He looked down at his feet and cleared his throat. "Look, I'm sorry I didn't call after..." he trailed off, knowing she'd know what he meant.

"It's okay. I wanted so badly to make it back for the funeral, but it just didn't work out. Kirsten told me about your brother and everything." She looked sideways at him. "Have you heard from him?"

"Not a word. But Trey was always really good at taking care of himself."

"I'm sure he's fine," she said sympathetically. She grabbed the sleeve of his jacket and pulled him toward the stairs leading to the subway station. "It's pretty far to my place, so we'll just take the Metra."

"Um, okay," he said, following her down the stairs. She turned her head back to look at him, a knowing glint in her eyes.

"Never been on a subway before, have you?"

"Nope."

"Well come on, Atwood, first time for everything." They found the right train and settled into their seats. Ryan looked at her as she chattered about school and being accepted to Harvard. He was surprised to find that the big city girl thing worked for Lindsay really well. She seemed more at home here than she ever had among the glitz and glamour of Orange County.

"It's really, really good to see you," he said out of the blue when she was done talking. "You were one of the most normal things in my life these past few years, and I think I forgot that until just now."

Lindsay laughed. "Normal? What part of 'I'm your foster mother's illegitimate half-sister' just screams normal to you?"

"That was just circumstance, though. You, yourself, have always been the most down-to-earth girl I've ever known." And it was true. He'd loved Marissa and Theresa, both in different ways, but Lindsay was unique. She was beautiful, although she didn't know it, and intelligent, which she knew all too well. She got nervous and tongue-tied easily, and was quick to jump to assumptions about people but just as quick to admit when she had made a mistake. She was real, and he'd always liked that.

She smiled and blushed. He'd forgotten she did that. "If that's a compliment, thank you. And if it's not, well, screw off."

They both laughed and continued to talk amicably until they reached the right stop. As they exited the subway, she said, "since we're sharing confessions, I should probably mention that I haven't met anyone out here who can hold a candle to you."

"No cocky, brilliant, good looking water polo players in the Windy City?" he quipped. She laughed and smacked him on the arm.

"Well you never were a water polo player, I know that now, but the rest certainly hasn't changed."

As she let them into her apartment, she said, "Mom and I desperately need to go grocery shopping, so we have almost nothing." She tossed her keys on the kitchen counter and went to the freezer, pulling out two pints of ice cream. She handed one to Ryan, then rummaged in one of the drawers for two spoons.

"Nutritious lunch," he observed as she peeled off the lid of the container and dug out a spoonful of ice cream.

"Yeah, well, it's this or pasta, and I'm horrible in the kitchen."

"I remember." They smirked at each other. "I could cook," Ryan offered.

"Don't you have some orientation thing you need to get back to?"

"That's hours away," he said, finding that all he wanted was to spend a little more time with her. "Now. Point me in the direction of a saucepan, and for your own protection, a fire extinguisher."

"Fire extinguisher?"

"Just trust me."

Ryan was late for his orientation dinner. They sat on the kitchen counter, their legs dangling, and ate spaghetti without pasta sauce and ice cream straight from the carton. The sun slipped below the horizon and the fire extinguisher lay underneath the sink, unused.

end

~*~*~

Years go by and I'm here still waiting
Withering where some snowman was
Mirror mirror where's the crystal palace
But I only can see myself
Skating around the truth who I am
But I know dad the ice is getting thin
Tori Amos

There was a certain sense of familiarity in winter's cold, icy winds. Their third winter on Earth was the worst yet, the ice and sleet and snow unrelenting. Kara didn't set much stock on dwelling of days past, but in wintertime she couldn't help but remember Delphi in the snow, the way the sun glinted off the ice-encrusted towers, reflecting light everywhere. Books and movies indicated that Earth boasted its own City of Lights, but she couldn't help but think that Paris was too…flashy. Paris looked like it tried too hard, and she had never had any patience for pretenders.

She'd never see Paris, she knew that. She'd never know if, up close, it truly paled in comparison to her memories of home. She very much doubted she'd ever leave this city, ever get the chance to explore this new and unfamiliar world. Our new home, she heard Adama say in her head, and though she scoffed at the sentiment she treasured the sound of his voice, an echo long since past. Home. Try again, Commander. Six months in a medical facility, in and out of labs, interrogation rooms, a chamber with a cot and four white walls that had her itching for her supplies, until the day she woke up and simply let herself forget that she was an artist. In the summer of the first year, the remainder of the fleet had been moved to a military compound that at least vaguely resembled a neighborhood, if she squinted her eyes and made herself forget about the armed guards just down the street. But this could never be home.

Sometimes Kara dreamed of her last night aboard Galactica. She never let herself think about it, because it made her want things she couldn't ever have again and wanting was counter-productive. But she'd never learned to control her dreams.

Laughter. Music blaring over the speakers on the hangar deck, Tyrol's booze flowing freely as pilots, deckhands, everyone that remained of Galactica's crew celebrated the end of the road, what they thought would be a new beginning. Tigh on the edge of a Raptor, a glass of water in his hand as he somberly fingered the insignia on his jacket. Kara in the thick of it all, laughing with Cally, letting Helo spin her around in a silly, crazy dance until entirely different arms caught her mid-spin. A hand she knew all too well spanned her waist, a voice whispering in her ear about finally and destiny and her heart was too full of joy to keep it all in. Turning in his arms, her hands tracing the curve of his jaw as she kissed him with abandon, ignoring the catcalls because this was destiny, and she was ready to stop fighting it.

You did it, Kara, he later said to her in the dark of the officer's quarters, his chest rumbling underneath her cheek as he spoke. We're here because of you. His hands ran down her spine, his fingers leaving little sparks of heat wherever they touched.

She never let herself think about it, because she missed the joy and the hope and the heat more than she could say. That night was the last time she ever truly felt warm.

They pulled Lee away from her not ten minutes after they set foot on Earth, and in that moment she knew.

They questioned her endlessly, listened without really listening as she explained the scriptures of Kobol, the founding of the twelve colonies, the much-debated myth of Earth, the lost thirteenth colony. The faith she'd clung to all her life, in her quieter moments when there was nothing but her and the cool metal of her idols, became something else entirely in the hands of those who stripped it, searching for a hidden agenda. They asked about Roslin, and Kara clenched her jaw, refusing to say a word. They didn't understand the role of the prophesied leader carrying the people to salvation, and Kara didn't understand how this was supposed to be salvation.

It was written. All of this has happened before, all of this will happen again. Someone here had to have known, she wanted to plead, but knew it would have no impact on these strangers with eyes that questioned, searched, saw everything and nothing. She saw only fear in their eyes. No understanding, no compassion, just unmitigated fear of the unknown.

Lords of Kobol…Laura, if you can hear me…there were signs and scriptures and we were so sure. We didn't come this far, survive this much to be treated like specimens in a jar, something to be scrutinized and questioned and tested upon. Destiny. This was supposed to be our destiny.

His face was pale and drawn the day he showed up at her door, two months after the fleet was moved onto the base. They'd held him longer for questioning, he said; she reached out and touched her fingertips to the cuts underneath his eye. Lee, she whispered, and then his arms were around her and her face was buried in his neck and they didn't say anything at all.

Fall became winter. The taunts faded into whispers, unintelligible but always there. The scared, distrustful looks never went away. Lee insisted on taking walks every night, pointing to the constellations of stars that she didn't want to recognize. She tried so hard to forget, but he'd never let it happen. She almost hated him sometimes.

But he was still able to look at the stars with wonder, and she loved him for that.

At night, she'd feel his cold feet against hers as he settled in next to her, pulled the blankets tightly around them. She moved this way and that, drawing her chilled body closer to him, seeking warmth. His breath brushed hotly against her neck, a small rush of heat in the bitter cold and she shivered, held him tighter.

Test us, break us, dehumanize us all you want, but Gods, you can't take this away.

On this Sunday, in her third winter on Earth, she slipped out of bed while he slept on, unaware. She bundled herself in her lumpy winter coat that was so much like her father's, like the one they took from her. She imagined it was locked up in some facility along with her idols, artifacts of another life, one as foreign to her now as this cold, unfeeling world once was. The seasons changed, sure; the weather turned mild with the arrival of spring and humid in the summertime, but all year long she felt the pull of winter. Spring, summer, fall, and what she felt most was the cold.

She nodded at the guard as he opened the gate, a distrustful look in his eyes. I am not your enemy, she wanted to scream. Same flesh, same blood, why is that not enough?

The church was two blocks away from the compound. The heavy oak doors loomed in front of her as she climbed the steps, grasped the large brass handle with her glove-encased hands. She took a seat in the back, unwilling to draw attention to herself, and listened as the man in front told a story that shouldn't have sounded so familiar. He spoke of Egypt and Israel, a people in exile, a promise from their God. He spoke of their leader, who perished without setting foot in the so-called Promised Land. She sat in the wooden pew long after the sermon was done, sending up unspoken prayers without really caring who received them.

Lee settled in next to her on the pew. Her eyes remained closed, but he radiated heat and she'd recognize that feeling even if she were deaf and blind. Without thinking she leaned her head on his shoulder. He gathered her hand in his, their fingers entwining, and when she finally looked at him his head was bowed, his eyes shut tight. She placed her other hand over their joined fingers.

So say we all.

end

~*~*~

He's going to tell her that he misses her, and it won't be true. He misses the Sharon he thought he knew, the one that bled out in the corridor while he held her, useless, unable to stop it. They look the same, but he knows in his gut that the woman – thing? – standing in front of him could never be his Sharon. But he'll pick up the phone and say that he misses her anyway, and she'll understand.

She's not his Sharon, but she knows him just as well. Knows that he had intended to go to the Academy, intended to become a hotshot pilot who'd make his mama proud when he brought home his wings. But somewhere along the way he realized that home wasn't the cockpit of some bird hanging in the star-strewn sky. Home was the hustle of the deck, where he could get his hands dirty and fix whatever was broken with the right equipment. He'd never been in control a moment in his life until the first day he sent a once-busted Viper out to launch. She knows him, knows how much he needs to feel like one frakking thing is his own to control as he will. Fix what's broken. Take care of his crew. This is life for him, not just a job, and she gets that.

She remembers the early mornings, just like he does. Curled up in his rack, trying to be quiet – but not trying too hard, because everyone knew and no one really cared – as they took turns sharing secrets. He'd never told anyone how much he wanted to be a father someday, have a chance to build a family like he'd never had growing up. But she knows, just like she knows that the dream, as it stands, doesn't exist without her. He has to find a new dream for himself, has to fashion a future without her in it, as much as it kills him. There's no past anymore, for any of them. The past is an annihilated solar system light-years beyond their reach; with a few exceptions, it's something none of them can revisit. They have today and tomorrow, and not much beyond that.

He'll tell her that he loves her, and that maybe he'll never stop, but at the very least he wants to try and live his life, what's left of it. Whether they find Earth or they spend the rest of their days on this broken-down Battlestar, he has to believe that there's something worth living for, something worth getting up every day and trying for. He'll hang up the phone and press his hand to the glass, and when she mirrors his posture he'll imagine he can feel the heat of her palm against his even through two layers of glass and metal. He'll close his eyes and turn his head away, following with the rest of his body until he's striding down the corridor toward the hangar bay. Toward home.

He'll lie on the empty deck, his left hand tucked under his head and his right curled around a jar of stilled booze, and look up at the newly christened Blackbird fighter. He'll look up at the panels of carbon composite, at the cockpit built with ruins of old Vipers, and think about what's next. He'll think that Apollo's wrong when he says that no one expects miracles. There's still a tomorrow to think about, which is miracle enough for him.

end

~*~*~

"Madam President, all due respect, but I don't get paid enough money for this."

"Lieutenant, I know this is somewhat outside of your range of expertise—"

"Somewhat? I'm a fighter pilot, sir, not a medic. Come to think of it, where the hell are the gods-damned medics?" Laura watched the younger woman anxiously pace to the opposite wall and back. The room was buzzing with activity, a large group of civilians gathered in the corner, offering support to the very pregnant young lady who had just hours before gone into heavy labor. Laura had asked Lieutenant Thrace to accompany her on a routine visit to the Geminon Traveler, both unaware of the chaos that awaited them. The Traveler crew had latched on to the pair as soon as they landed, grateful for the arrival of any authority figure.

"They've been called, but they're on rounds with Doctor Cottle and I'm afraid they won't arrive in time. And if that is the case, we are going to need someone to take control, someone who won't buckle under pressure. Someone who will do what needs to be done. I was under the impression that a member of the Colonial Fleet would be up to the task, however, feel free to correct me if I'm mistaken."

Kara stopped pacing and looked Laura straight in the eye, her gaze cold and unflinching. "I think I've proved that I'm more than up to any task you care to give me."

"Indeed," Laura said simply. "That's why I have every faith that you can perform this one."

"Yes, sir, Madam President," said Kara blankly, her face revealing no emotion, before crossing the room to join the throng of people. "Move!" she barked, and damned if they didn't jump ten feet away instantly. Laura watched all this with a grim smile. Kara spoke and people listened, and she couldn't help but respect that.

An hour later, Kara and the new mother were equally sweaty and exhausted. Kara slumped against the wall as the medic, who had arrived in the middle of the delivery, placed the newborn baby girl in her mother's arms. Laura started to cross the room, but was stopped in her tracks by the look on Kara's face.

"Lieutenant," she said. Kara snapped her head up to look at Laura.

"Excuse me, Madam President, just…I need to clean up," Kara said, scrambling to her feet and running for the door. More worried now than ever, Laura followed. She reached the hallway and out of the corner of her eye saw a hatch slam shut. She walked briskly down the hallway and reached for the hatch. She didn't know what she had expected to find, but the sight of Kara Thrace kneeling, huddled on the floor, her arms wrapped around her midsection and her shoulders shaking hit Laura like a ton of bricks. Kara's eyes were dry, but her breathing was ragged and she looked a second away from screaming aloud. Laura well knew the feeling of desperation she saw in the younger woman's eyes. She'd seen them mirrored in her own the day the worlds ended, the day she'd almost simultaneously been diagnosed with terminal cancer and handed the responsibility of thousands of lives. She knew that gut-wrenching terror of losing everything and still being forced to go on, to live as if you weren't one step away from complete and total freefall. Laura looked at Kara and knew that she was desperately close to the edge, although she didn't pretend to know why. Carefully, she kneeled in front of Kara's shaking form and took the pilot's hands in her own.

"I did my job," Kara said, looking plaintively at Laura. "I always do my job, no matter what."

Laura smiled reassuringly, even though her heart felt like breaking. "I believe that." Kara choked out a sob and Laura squeezed her hands, softly saying "It's okay now. It's okay."

end

~*~*~

To say that Lee was having a bad day was overstating things somewhat. Everyone's definition of what a bad day entailed had been changed after the attack on the Colonies, the destruction of their home planets, almost a week of constant pursuit from the Cylons. Your father was shot by a Cylon and you got put in the brig? Sure, fine, that was a bad day. Having the flu and nearly throwing up in the ready room during the pre-flight briefing was nothing compared to other things he'd dealt with in the past six months. What he needed to do was suck it up and do his job. With a callsign like Apollo, sick days weren't exactly in the vocabulary.

It all sounded fine in theory, but Lee, huddled in his rack under a mountain of blankets, was too concerned with staring at the wall and trying to keep his breakfast down to worry much about theory.

"Ugh, frak off," he mumbled as the curtain was pulled back, flooding his dark rack with the harsh overhead light. He pulled a blanket over his eyes. "I don't care who you are, or what you want, but frak. OFF. And shut the curtain behind you."

"Boy, you're testy when you're sick," he heard Kara say cheerily. He groaned inwardly; his "I'll throw you out an airlock" threats worked on most of the pilots, the nuggets in particular, but there was no getting rid of Starbuck. Lee rolled over on his side, intent on ignoring her. Unfortunately, Kara seemed to take that as an invitation to sit on the edge of his bed.

"Move over, Captain," she said, nudging him with her hip.

He turned his head to glare over his shoulder at her. "Get away from me, Kara."

"Aww, Apollo, my feelings are almost possibly hurt." Her voice dropped to a teasing whisper. "Move over and I'll shut the curtain," she said. Unable to resist the prospect of blessed darkness, he turned over and shifted so his back was against the wall. She pulled her legs up onto the bed and drew the curtain closed, leaving them in semi-darkness.

"So, Adama, couldn't resist playing hooky—" her voice trailed off. "Why are you still in your flight suit?"

He shrugged and immediately regretted it, even the simplest motion made his head pound. "I was cold."

"You really are sick, aren't you," she said, and either he was imagining things or that was a hint of concern in her voice.

"No, I'm just playing. The nausea is just method acting," he said sarcastically.

She tugged a bit on his hand. "Here. Can you sit up for a second?"

"Ugh. No."

He could almost hear her roll her eyes. "Lee, be a good boy and I'll give you a lollipop. Just sit up for a second. Lying here in this flight suit isn't doing you any good. You might as well be comfortable."

"I was just fine before someone came poking around," he grumbled, but struggled to a sitting position nonetheless. Kara tugged the zipper down to his waist, and even though his arms felt like lead, he managed to free them from the flight suit. She pulled the suit down, her arms skimming the sides of the tank top he wore underneath. Her touch calmed him, comforted him somehow, but that fact (and all other thoughts of that nature) he'd long since trained himself to ignore. She pushed the blankets to the side as she worked the material off his legs.

"Always trying to get me out of my pants, Lieutenant. I could have you thrown in the brig for this," he joked feebly.

"Oh, good. Haven't been in a few months, been craving a little solitude. See, there's this pain in the ass CAG that will not stop yakking." She bundled the flight suit into a ball next to her.

"In other words, 'shut up, Lee?'" Now clad only in a tank top and pair of running shorts, he shuddered at the sudden cold.

"Always were a smart one," Kara replied as she helped him pull the blankets back over himself. "Now you can lie down." She waited until he was settled before leaning down and reaching her hand out of the curtain. "Fresh out of lollipops, but I swiped these from the galley," she said, holding a bottle of seltzer and a small package of crackers out to him.

Lee raised an eyebrow. "Swiped them?"

"Yeah, well, swiped them in the sense that I gave the guard ten cubits and he became more than accommodating."

"Kara," he said, amused and more touched than he'd care to admit.

"Don't go getting all big-headed," she chided. "I was on my way back from the gym and really, what's ten cubits these days? Nothing."

"Nothing," he agreed, unable to keep the laughter out of his voice.

She sighed, aggravated. "Just shut up and drink this." She unscrewed the cap and extended the bottle to him. He lifted his head up slightly, but couldn't find the energy to sit upright again. Carefully, Kara lowered the bottle to his lips, her other hand coming up to cradle his neck for support as he drank deeply. He made a noise in his throat when he was done; she pulled the bottle back and capped it with one hand. "Hungry?" she asked, her fingers lightly running through the hair at the nape of his neck.

He shook his head; he could already feel his eyelids drooping. Five minutes ago he'd wanted to murder her for barging in and, well, being Starbuck, but now he hated that this moment between them had to end. They spent so much of their lives flying, fighting, surviving; there wasn't much time left to simply be. Moments like these were of short supply for anyone these days. "I'll eat them later," he mumbled, feeling sleep starting to creep up on him. "Thanks, Starbuck."

"Just get back on your feet, Apollo," she said, retracting her hand from behind his head and pulling the blankets more securely around his shoulders. "You might be my superior officer, but you can consider that an order."

"Yes, sir," he said, succumbing to the temptation to shut his eyes. He felt the mattress shift as she slowly pulled the curtain open and slid out. "Night, Lee," she whispered, and just before he drifted to sleep he felt the light, warm touch of her mouth pressed to his.

Later, he would have a hard time deciding if that last bit was a dream.

end

~*~*~

"That's your sixth hot dog."

"Your point?"

"There's no way you should be able to look like that and eat six hot dogs," he says, looking impressed and baffled all at once.

She knows there's a compliment buried in there somewhere, so she settles for slapping him on the arm before standing up to take her turn.

"Any tips?"

"Yeah. People don't normally like it when you bowl into their lane."

"I'm never living that one down, am I?" she sighs as she grabs her ball.

"Not in this decade."

She turns and makes a mocking face at him before focusing back on the lane. Step, step, step, roll--

"Damn it," she mutters, stomping her foot slightly as the ball rolls just to the left of the pins. She turns back to Weiss, cocking an eyebrow. "OK. Aside from the hot dogs and the disco ball, I'm not really seeing the fun here."

He takes a sip of his beer before standing up and crossing to the ball return. "Fine, fine. C'mere." He hands her ball back to her. "You're pulling your arm to the left after you release, that's all." He grabs her shoulders and points her back to the lane. "Step, step, step, release, and keep your arm straight ahead. We'll try it slow." She steps and he follows, his hand resting on her right arm.

"Now release, good--OW!" Her right foot hooks behind her left as she lets go, catching his ankle and knocking him off-balance. He attempts to keep himself upright, succeeding only in pulling her down with him. They collapse in a tangle of arms and legs, Nadia letting out a little shriek as they hit the floor.

"Way to go, klutz," Weiss says.

"Look who's talking, big feet," she shoots back. They stare at each other wordlessly before breaking out into simultaneous bursts of laughter. She rests her head on his chest and laughs until she's gasping for air, until the occupants of the surrounding lanes are staring suspiciously at them, and somewhere in the back of her mind she knows she hasn't laughed like this in far too long.

"Look," Nadia says after she catches her breath, pointing to the end of the lane, "eight pins. Not bad."

"Yeah, well, nine if you count the bump I'm gonna have on my head," Weiss replies, pulling himself to a sitting position.

"And to think, this is supposed to be less dangerous than work." Leaning over, she places her hands on his head, feeling for any bumps. "Are you alright? Really."

"I'm fine. My pride, what was left of it, has taken a horrible beating." He reaches up to brush a piece of hair out of her face. "But it's worth it to see you smile like that."

She grins at him and gets a brilliant smile in return. She's happier right now, right at this moment, than she's ever been, but she doesn't know how to tell him that. She smiles most when he's around, but she can't tell him that either. There's not much that she can say, but it doesn't seem to matter as he leans in, his smile fading. She meets him halfway and kisses him softly, hesitantly. Later on, she won't quite be able to believe that their first kiss happened on the lacquered floor of a 24-hour bowling alley, the strobe light swirling around them and cheesy 80s music pounding in her ears. But right now, she just can't seem to care.

"So, I've changed my mind." she whispers as she pulls back.

"About what?"

"Bowling," she says with a devilish grin. She kisses him again. "I love bowling."

end

~*~*~

She's never wanted a fresh start as much as she does right now, watching him by the flickering fire. He's exactly her type, and once upon a time, she would have wanted him for all the wrong reasons. But for once, she wants to want him for the right ones.

She kisses him as a thank you, an apology, a promise of change, of things to come. She kisses him because she wants to, because for once, she has all the right reasons. He kisses her back, and she knows with sudden clarity that her wish has been granted.

Everything has changed, starting now.

He comes to her two days later. "Walk with me," he says. The sun skims the waterline as they walk on the shore, the water lapping at their bare feet. They talk about everything and nothing, walking until the sun's well below the horizon and the sky is scattered with stars. He laughs, a deep, throaty laugh, when she points out the one constellation she knows. "It's one of the Dippers, I don't know which one, but it's the only one I can ever see." He takes her hand and together they find Orion - his favorite. She's not surprised.

She watches him work on the raft for almost a week before one day she snaps. He's taking a water break when she marches up to him, grabs his hand, and pulls him into the forest with her. The moment they're out of sight she grabs his shirt and kisses him. "You've been doing manual labor in jeans and a wifebeater for six days straight. Every girl's got a breaking point," she says by way of explanation. He smirks at her, makes a smart-ass comment about her bikini-wearing habits, and kisses her before she can respond. "Turnabout is fair play," he mumbles against her mouth. Somehow she ends up backed up against a tree, his hands roaming under the hem of her top, and she's ready to concede game, set, and match.

She gets in the habit of coming to his tent as the sun dips low in the sky and the camp quiets for the night. Tonight he’s studying Rousseau's maps when she enters. "I'll never get any work done with you around," he says, an exasperated and amused tone to his voice. "You're a bad influence."

She straddles his legs, her knees sinking into the blanket-covered sand. "What's that saying?" she says, leaning her arms on his shoulders and touching her forehead to his. "Something about 'lead me not into temptation'..." Her elbows resting on his shoulders, she bends her arms and reaches back to untie the knot at the base of her neck. The straps of her bikini top slide down her shoulders. Grinning wickedly, she continues. "I can find the way myself."

His lips press against hers as his hands slide up her nearly-bare back. His fingers undo the clasp just below her shoulder blades, and she shivers with the sensation of it as the fabric falls away. There are times when being with him makes her feel comfortable and safe; when he's cradling her in his arms as they watch sunsets and sunrises, she thinks she's never felt more protected in her life. But when he kisses her like this, she's reminded just how woefully exposed she is. She's used to having the upper hand with men and relationships, used to commanding the when and how of these things. Used to being in control. She may have made the first move, but the idea of being in control here, with him, is laughable. She's at the mercy of his slightly-chapped lips brushing against her neck, his warm, callused hands gripping her waist. She knows it, revels in it. The old Shannon Rutherford, queen bitch of Los Angeles, would have scoffed at the idea of someone having that much power over her. The new Shannon - 20 years old, resident of Craphole Island- is too exhilarated to worry much about the rest.

Three nights later she's awakened by the sound of ragged breathing. She opens her eyes and sees him on the other end of the tent, his arms leaning on his updrawn knees, his head in his hands. She crawls over to him and places her hands over his own, prompting him to look at her. His eyes are dark, blank almost, but she can see the quiet despair he's trying to cover up. She doesn't say anything, just kisses him softly, her lips a whisper against his. Pulling on his wrist, she gets him to lie down again. She stretches out in front of him, her back to his chest, and wraps his arm across her stomach. Still gripping his hand, she almost drifts off to sleep when suddenly he speaks, his breath ruffling the hair on the back of her neck.

"Her name was Nadia."

She turns in his arms, facing him, encouraging him with her eyes to continue. He does, haltingly. She can tell this is something he never talks about, under normal circumstances. The fact that he trusts her this much makes her rethink things. Maybe it's not about control or balance of power or anything else that she's lived her whole life by. Maybe it's just two people who need something the other can give. And she's okay with that. So she tightens her arms around him, closes her eyes, and gives what she can.

And this is how it is between them. Every second erases what they thought they knew, bringing to light the new life they've been given, here in this place.

end

~*~*~

"Go away, Huntzberger," Rory's muffled voice came from behind her closed bedroom door.

Logan leaned on the doorframe. "Come on, Ace. I have coffee, I have orange juice, and I have various breakfast pastries. I haven't seen you in three days, I'm not worried about you being contagious, and I promise not to laugh at your red nose and cake PJs." He turned his head and winked at Paris, who rolled her eyes, shouldered her bookbag, and exited through the main suite door.

The bedroom door swung open and he was faced with a very disheveled, very sick, very pissed-off Rory Gilmore. "They're frog PJs, actually. And I am not contagious."

"Then you won't mind me coming in," Logan replied, breezing past Rory into her bedroom. He cocked an eyebrow at her bed, which was covered with notebooks, schoolbooks, her laptop, and a jumbo size box of Kleenex. "Here’s a little tip, Ace - being sick generally means a few days of sleeping and watching movies and absolutely no schoolwork."

"Right. Have you met me?" Rory replied, flopping back down onto her propped-up pillows.

Logan set the bakery bag and drink carrier down on Rory's desk. Grabbing the largest cup of coffee out of the carrier, he crossed over to Rory's bed and dangled the cup in front of her face. "Everybody needs a break, even you."

She sighed, smiled weakly, and accepted the coffee. "Thank you, Logan."

"Sincere gratitude? Why, I'm shocked." They smirked at each other. He leaned down slightly and tucked an errant piece of hair behind her ear. "So, donut, bagel, or Danish, what'll it be?"

She shook her head. "I appreciate the gesture, but I'm really not hungry right now. I'm just really, really tired, and this all just isn't making any sense." She swept her hand to indicate the open textbooks in front of her.

"Cold meds will do that to you," he said, shedding his leather jacket and hanging it on her bedpost. "Move over a bit." Rory shifted on the bed to make room for him, setting her coffee on the bedside table. He settled in against her pillows, kicking his shoes off onto the floor. Softly tugging on Rory's arm, he pulled her to him so her back was leaning on his chest. "So, which professor am I buying off today?"

"Ha. Ha. Ha," she said dryly, followed by a coughing fit. He tightened his arm around her stomach, overcome by an unexpected feeling of protectiveness. When her coughing died down, she turned her head to look at him. "You’re being uncharacteristically sweet today. Should I be worried?"

"Nah. Just don't let word spread too far, I've become quite fond of being known as a jackass."

"No tell-all journal entries in the Daily News, got it." She sighed. "I have so much work to do," she said, reaching for the nearest notebook. He plucked it out of her hands.

"Politics and the Media," he read aloud. "Test soon?"

"Monday."

He flipped open the notebook with one hand. "Just tell me where to start."

"You're going to read my notes to me?"

"Yes, I am."

Rory chuckled disbelievingly. "Weird, but I'm too tired to argue. Marth 7th."

She settled in closer to him, laying her head back on his shoulder, as he began to read.

She was out like a light by March 11th. Logan set the notebook aside, pulled the covers up to her shoulders, and dropped a kiss on the top of her head. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the pillows. Being Rory Gilmore's boyfriend – never boring, definitely has its upsides.

end

Rory awoke to find her face smushed against a throw pillow. The chenille throw that usually lay across the couch back was spread over her prone body. Flipping over on the couch, she stretched her arms and yawned widely. She glanced at her watch - ten til five.

She sat up and swung her legs to the floor, pushing her fingers through her tangled hair and glancing at the wreckage on the floor - pizza boxes, soda cans, half-eaten bags of marshmallows. She vaguely remembered nodding off about the time Cary Elwes started singing to Maid Marian. Much to Paris's dismay, they'd gone "theme" and watched both the Prince of Thieves and Men in Tights versions of Robin Hood. Marty had pushed for the animated version as well, but Rory had argued that her day was bad enough without adding Disney into the mix, thank you very much.

Chewing on her bottom lip, Rory remembered that somehow, she had ended up next to Marty on the hardwood floor, her head resting on the curve of his shoulder. She had been dozing through most of the second movie, but she distinctly remembered him lightly resting his arm across the couch, idly running his hand up and down her arm. It was innocent, but Rory blushed at the memory all the same. It had been a while since she'd been so at peace with someone else, content to sit next to someone and not say anything, comfortable enough to fall asleep on his shoulder. Marty must have lifted her onto the couch before he left, she realized, as she had no recollection of climbing up herself.

Falling asleep with a boy. Mom would have a field day with that one. Rory reached for her bag and dug out her cell phone. She was all set to dial when she remembered two things: one, that it was five in the morning; and two, that she didn't do that anymore. She didn't call Lorelai for something so trivial; she hadn't since before their rift that summer. Their relationship was not as simple or unquestionable as it used to be.

It can be, she thought to herself. She knew it, and she'd known it before her breakdown on the previous day. The only person holding back communication was Rory herself, because she couldn't own up to what she'd done. Guilt-tripping herself was almost too easy, but admitting her downfalls to her mom was something else entirely. She couldn't look at her mother and admit how badly she'd screwed up, admit that she wasn't the perfect girl she'd always been made out to be. She couldn't tell Lorelai "hey, Mom, congratulations. You kept me from repeating your mistakes, so I just went ahead and picked out some new ones. Aren't you proud?"

Rory crossed to the small sink outside her suitemates' door. As she splashed her face with water from the tap, she could hear Marty saying "mistakes get made. Shit happens." Drying her face with a towel, she looked up into the small mirror above the sink. "I made a mistake," she said aloud to her reflection. "I'm Rory Gilmore, and I make mistakes," she said more confidently, her voice echoing in the large living room. "Pretty big ones, but still, just mistakes. No need for the self-flagellation."

"What the hell, Rory, it is five in the morning," Paris said, her face appearing behind Rory's in the mirror.

Rory whirled around and clapped a hand to her mouth. "Oh. Sorry, I was just--"

"Talking to the mirror, yeah, I saw," Paris said sleepily, waving her hand dismissively. "I'm going back to bed. Carry on, nutcase."

Rory cocked her head and grinned bemusedly as their bedroom door creaked shut. "Aww, there's that Paris Gellar charm." She shot one final glance at her reflection. "But I have a better idea." Pulling her hair into a messy ponytail, she walked to her room for a change of clothes.

Five minutes later, she was outside in the predawn cold, walking to her car. The sky was still dark, a handful of stars shining overhead. Rory cradled the phone between her shoulder and ear as she pulled her gloves on. The phone rang four times before she heard a click on the other end.

"Hello?" a groggy voice mumbled.

"Hey. I'm going in."

"Huh? Who is this?"

"It's Rory. I'm going home."

Marty was silent for a few seconds before replying, "Rory, you know it's, like, five in the morning."

"So I've been told," she said, checking both ways as she crossed the road to the parking lot.

"Just checking."

"You know how I said I wasn't ready before? Well," she took in a deep breath and exhaled, "I think I'm ready now."

"Excellent timing." He yawned. "Do you want me to come with you?"

"That's sweet, but no." She fished her keys out of her bag as she neared her car. "I just need confirmation that I'm doing the right thing."

"You're doing the right thing," he dutifully replied.

"Thanks. Sorry for waking you up."

"S'ok. You'll have to explain all this to me when my brain is fully functioning."

"Yeah. Go back to sleep."

" 'Kay."

Rory frowned when the line fell silent. "Marty!"

"Huh? What?"

"Hang up the phone first."

"Oh. Thanks."

She waited until she heard the telltale click on his end before she snapped her phone shut. Tossing it onto the passenger seat, she climbed into her car and started the engine.

The leaves made a pleasant crunching sound under Rory's tennis shoes as she walked down the pathway to the lake. She'd parked her car at the Dragonfly, not wanting to go straight to the house and wake Lorelai up. She knew her mom would be in to work sometime after seven, and Rory wanted some time to herself before then.

She hadn't spent much time in Stars Hollow since before she left for Europe; it felt foreign to her now, like a nice town that she might visit, but it didn't feel like home. And that hurt. If Stars Hollow wasn't her home, then what did she have? A dorm room, a guest suite at her grandparents' place, a pull-out couch at her dad's. But these places couldn't be home, either. No one at Yale knew her when she was a gap-toothed six year old. Her grandparents, wonderful as they were, probably couldn't list three of Rory's favorite movies, and her Dad would never know which facial expression meant "leave me the hell alone" and which meant "I want to talk." The people that knew her, heart and soul, all lived in this town, this little community that still had open-door policies for neighbors and friends.

Rory had come to realize that she thought of Stars Hollow as an historical map now, as a collection of places that represented the people she'd known and loved. Walking across the bridge, of course, could only bring to mind one person, a person that she'd tried very hard not to think about since her high school graduation. She paused halfway across, stopping and crouching down at the exact place where they'd once argued the virtues of Ayn Rand against Ernest Hemingway; the place where she'd begun, bit by bit, to lose her heart - though she wouldn't have admitted it at the time. She didn't regret not leaving with him the night of his mother's wedding. What she regretted was the look in his eyes when she said no, the no that meant "I don't want to be with you". He'd never admit it, not to anyone, but things like that hurt him just as much as they would anyone else. He wasn't nearly as tough as he'd like people to believe, and she knew that, just as she knew that when he cared about someone, he cared deeply, more deeply than anyone could imagine. She knew he loved Luke, and would always be grateful to him for not letting Jess fall by the wayside. And she knew Jess had loved her. But his feelings and actions never quite aligned, and Rory had gotten tired of waiting for Jess to act like the good man she knew he really was, deep down. A part of her might always love him, but she wouldn't spend her life waiting for him. She could only hope that he'd find someone who would inspire him to be more than he thought he could be - a feat she'd never been able to accomplish.

The sun was steadily inching higher in the sky. Rory rose, dusted off her jeans, and continued on toward the main part of town. It was time to move on, in more ways than one.

As she entered the square, Rory noted that several lights were lit on the lower level of Kim's Antiques. It was just now six-thirty, but Mrs. Kim had probably been up for two hours already. As much as Rory loved that Lane had her own place, her own life for the very first time, she would always acquaint this antique shop with memories of her vibrant, caring best friend. Lane the audiophile, the cheerleader (three years after the fact, and Rory was still wrapping her brain around that one), the pop culture junkie, the Korean not-so-model child - she'd spent 18 years of her life in that shop, and Rory had spent a good part of those years in there with her. Rory didn't deserve a friend like Lane, she knew - but she also knew it would take several years and possibly a surgical procedure to get rid of her. Lane didn't give up on people that she loved, even when they really and truly deserved it. Rory made a mental note to schedule a girls' night with Lane soon, as she was in serious need of some good old fashioned girl talk, something that just couldn't be achieved with Paris.

Rory crossed the street and cut across the square, smiling hello to a few people she recognized. She studiously ignored the market - she wasn't ready for that one just yet. Instead, she took a seat on the gazebo in a spot facing the diner - a place that reminded her a bit of Jess, but mostly of Luke. The door opened, a few patrons exiting, and she caught a glimpse of Luke at the counter. He appeared to be busy attending to the six a.m. crowd, wearing his traditional outfit of a baseball cap, jeans, and flannel shirt - complete with a day-old beard and a scowl that seemed to be directed at Kirk. Lorelai was nowhere to be seen, but then, Rory would bet money that Luke had made a pot of coffee before he left the house that morning. It surprised Rory how comfortable she actually was with the idea of Luke there at the Gilmore house, taking care of Lorelai. She'd reacted badly when she first found out about the arrangement, true, but that was just one more thing she could add to her list of mistakes this year. In truth, she wanted Lorelai to have someone, and there was no one better than Luke. Luke, the big, grouchy, wonderful man who had taken care of the Gilmore women since before she cared to remember. The man who loved her mom, who had been the closest thing to a full-time father Rory had ever had - yeah, she was more than OK with him being part of their home, their lives. She'd have to make sure he knew that.

Crossing her arms to ward off the chill, she glanced right and left, taking in the landmarks that she knew like the back of her hand. She had two decades of memories stored up in this town. Some were faded and hazy around the edges, nothing distinct about them except the feelings they evoked in her. There was the time when Lorelai took her shopping at Doose's Market and let five-year-old Rory carry the basket. She'd lasted two boxes of cereal before she gave up, insisting that the basket was too heavy (the lure of the candy aisle playing a major part as well). It wasn't their first trip to Doose's, and it obviously wouldn't be their last, but Rory could still feel the pride she'd taken in that one simple task. The details weren't important; the feelings were what lingered.

Rory had newer memories associated with Doose's, memories that were much clearer and more detailed. She remembered with perfect clarity the way Dean's hair would fall over his forehead as he turned to watch her walk into the store; the way that lazy grin would spread across his face when she headed toward the back aisle, pretending to look at Elmer's Glue or a six-pack of lightbulbs. She could replay their first kiss exactly, down to every detail, including the smell of his cologne and the shirt he was wearing under his green apron.

She could look further down the street, to Miss Patty's dance studio, and remember the moment she'd discovered what the term "boyfriend" really meant. It wasn't a concept she'd ever really considered, as it fell outside of the small worldview - Mom, Lane, movies, books - she'd held for sixteen years. The night of the Chilton dance could very clearly be marked as the day her life changed - not for the better or the worse, but she could no longer pretend that her narrow concept of "life" was sufficient. Boys, handsome, kind boys who would read Dorothy Parker to her and kiss her like she was something special - these things were not covered in her childhood manual.

Dean was her first everything - first kiss, first boyfriend, first time - and firsts were hard to forget, hard to recover from, but she knew she had to try. She'd screwed things up with Dean, and she didn't have to take that lightly, but the sooner she learned to forgive herself, forgive him for being such a tough act to follow, the sooner she'd be able to truly move on. She knew that's what this trip home was all about - letting go. Letting go of what was already gone, and holding on to what was important. She'd hold on to the memories she had of Dean, and equally of Jess, but she was done trying to recapture what was past.

Breaking herself out of her reverie, Rory checked her watch. Taking one final glance around the square, she turned and began walking back to the Dragonfly. If she was learning to let go, she needed to decide what was worth holding on to - and she'd never wanted to see her mother more.

Rory was waiting on the Dragonfly's porch, her knees tucked up to her chest and her arms around her legs, when Lorelai's Jeep came into view. She bit her lower lip, trying to supress her nerves as the Jeep came to a park alongside the main building and Lorelai climbed out. Against her will, Rory smiled to herself when Lorelai's boot got stuck on something in the Jeep. Lorelai muttered something Rory couldn't hear as she yanked her foot free and slammed the driver's side door. She walked up the path, digging for something in her purse, and trotted up the steps, unknowingly passing right by her daughter.

"Mom," Rory said softly. She didn't look up, but she could hear Lorelai's sharp intake of breath as her steps stopped on the porch.

"Rory?" Lorelai asked, as if she couldn't believe what was right in front of her eyes.

"Hey," Rory said, turning her head back to face her mom.

"Rory?" Lorelai said again, a slight tremor in her voice as she slowly walked back to the steps. She sank down next to her daughter. "What is it? What's wrong?"

Rory looked out at the courtyard, somehow unable to meet her mother's gaze now that Lorelai was sitting right next to her. "Nothing. Everything. I don't know." She hugged herself tighter, trying to ward off the shiver she felt. "But I missed you," she said in a voice that was almost a whisper, hating the way the words shook as they left her mouth.

"Oh, sweetheart," Lorelai said.

"I'm sorry, Mom. I'm so, so sorry. I've been cold and distant and I hate that I treated you that way, I hate it. I pushed you away and made you feel like I didn't need you anymore, but it's not true. I'm just...really sorry, for everything," Rory finished in a rush of breath.

"You done?" Lorelai asked.

"I think so," Rory said. "There's probably a few thousand more apologies left, but, you know--" she shrugged her shoulders, "redundant."

Lorelai sighed. "Then can I hug my daughter now? Because it's been a few months, and Rory withdrawal is really not a good look for me."

Unable to speak around the sudden lump in her throat, Rory leaned into her mom and felt Lorelai's arms wrap around her shoulders. "I'm sorry," she whispered again, sniffling back the tears that had welled up.

Lorelai kissed Rory's forehead, rubbing her hand on Rory's back. "Honey, you don't have to apologize to me for anything. I just want to know that you're alright. That's all I've ever wanted, from the time you were a year old and walking into coffee tables and armchairs. Your happiness, kid, that's all I care about."

"I messed up really badly, Mom."

"You can fix it."

"I know."

"I'll help," Lorelai said in a chipper voice, playfully tugging on Rory's ponytail.

Rory smiled into her mother's shoulder. "I'm counting on it." And somehow, at the moment, that was all that needed to be said.

An hour later they were tucked into a table at Luke's, eating their respective huge breakfasts - pancakes for Lorelai, french toast for Rory. Lorelai was catching Rory up on the town gossip - "Kirk did what?" "You and I both know that's hardly the most embarrassing thing he's ever done. Exhibit A, A Film By Kirk." - and Rory was filling her in on classes and life with Paris. Mid-sentence, Rory glanced down to find her coffee cup nearly empty.

"Tank's empty. Be right back." She slid off her chair and crossed to the counter. Luke was at the cash register, cashing out a customer check. On an impulse, Rory came around the counter, grabbed the coffeepot from its warmer, and filled up her own cup. She turned to find Luke glaring down at her.

"Do I need to repeat the 'sacred space' lecture I gave your mother not two days ago?"

"Oh, come on, Luke, you can make exceptions for family." Before he had a chance to respond, she set her cup aside on the counter and rose up on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek. "You take care of me, and my mom. That makes you family," she said quietly in his ear, squeezing his arm for emphasis. "No avoiding it, m'boy."

"Wouldn't dream of it," Luke replied gruffly, enveloping her in a hug. "It's good to have you home."

"Home," Rory replied. That sounds about right. She pulled back and socked Luke lightly on the shoulder. "Thanks, Luke."

She returned to her table and sank into her seat. Lorelai tilted her head in Luke's direction, cocking one eyebrow. "What was that all about?"

"Nothing," Rory said, smiling over the rim of her coffee cup. "So, have I told you about Marty yet?"

"Naked Guy? No! Spill."

Andrew, who was sitting at the counter, laid a ten down next to his plate and got up to leave. As he opened the door and turned to wave goodbye to Luke, Lorelai's voice rang out over the diner and out onto the sidewalk.

"He pushed you into a fountain? It's official, I love this kid."

"Mom!"

~*~*~

"Mom--" Lorelai said, clutching her cell phone in one hand and the wheel in the other.

Emily continued on, oblivious. "I was thinking something simple yet elegant for this party, very Easter Parade--"

"Oh look, Mom, I'm about to crash into a tree. Gotta go." Lorelai snapped her phone shut and swung the Jeep into the drive. She was surprised to see both Rory's Prius and Luke's truck parked side by side in front of the garage. Luke had said he would stop by later, but she hadn't expected him until at least seven, and it was only four-thirty. And Rory hadn't said anything about coming home, but Lorelai wasn't going to look a gift horse in the mouth. Seeing her kid never required an invitation.

She twisted the doorknob and stepped into the foyer, dropping her purse on the table. "Hello?" she called cheerfully. No response from either Rory or Luke. Tilting her head inquisitively, she walked through the archway into the living room. Rory was sitting on one end of the couch, an afghan wrapped around her shoulders and a large textbook propped against her updrawn knees. "Hey kid," Lorelai started before she noticed that the headphones to her iPod were stuck in Rory's ears.

Crossing the room, she leaned low over the couch. No reaction from Rory. Wow, this kid can concentrate. Are we sure she's mine? "Hey," she said loudly, rapping her knuckles lightly on Rory's forehead.

Rory jerked violently, the textbook - International Relations, Lorelai noted - sliding off her lap and landing on the floor with a thump. Clapping a hand to her chest, Rory looked up at her mom. "Jeez, mom, abuse much?"

"Well hello, Miss Dead to the World."

Scowling, Rory pulled the headphones from her ears. "You almost gave me a heart attack!"

"Hi, mom, I'm fine, how are you?" Lorelai said in her "Rory mocking" voice.

Calming slightly, Rory sighed. "Hi, mom." She leaned over to pick up the fallen textbook.

"Hey, babe. What brings you so far from thine hallowed halls?"

"Paris was driving me seven kinds of crazy, so I came here to study. I'll probably head back in a few hours."

Lorelai plopped down on the other end of the couch. "I only see you when you need to study. Not fair. I'm sure there's a clause in the Mommy-Daughter Contract forbidding such negligence."

"At least you see me at all. I could have applied to Oxford."

"Perish the thought!" Lorelai said in mock horror. She kicked her heels off. "Oh, FYI - if your grandmother calls and asks anything funny about me, just please, please tell her the tree got the better of me."

"I really don't want to know."

"You really don't." Lorelai rolled her neck, wincing at the popping noise it made. "Wow, I'm tense. I'm gonna go upstairs and take a shower. Can you at least stick around for dinner?"

Rory giggled mischeviously.

"What?" Lorelai said suspiciously.

Rory smiled. It was a seemingly innocent smile, but Lorelai recognized it for what it was - the "I know something Mommy doesn't know" smile. It hadn't changed much in twenty years.

"OK, kid, spill."

"Yes, I can stay for dinner, but you might have an issue with the showering thing."

"Why, pray tell?"

"Your bathroom is occupied, and has been for the past forty-five minutes."

"By who? Luke?"

"It's 'by whom', and yes, Luke. Unless you have another flannel wearing, Oscar-the-Grouch, slightly drunk boyfriend I should know about."

"Wait. What? Luke's drunk?"

"Liiittle bit," Rory replied, holding her thumb and forefinger about an inch apart. "He stumbled in a while ago, crawled up the stairs--"

Lorelai's jaw dropped. "He did not crawl."

"Excuse me, who witnessed the event here? He definitely crawled - well, it was more of a half stumble, half crawl. Then I heard your bathroom door shut and the tub start running."

"That doesn't make any sense."

"I didn't say it made any sense. I'm just the innocent bystander."

"So he hasn't come out or anything?"

"Nope. I knocked on the door a little bit ago and asked if he was all right. He said that he was. Anything further you'll have to take care of yourself. I may be an investigative reporter, but I draw the line at busting in on naked Luke."

"Thanks for checking, sweets. Something's gotta be up if he's home so early." Lorelai heaved herself off the couch with a weary sigh.

"Home?" Rory asked.

"Huh?"

"You just said 'if he's home so early.'"

"Oh. I did, didn't I?" Lorelai shrugged. "It was just a slip of the tongue."

Rory frowned thoughtfully. "What would you say if I said I kind of like it, you know, the idea of this being Luke's home too?"

"Well, hon, we haven't really talked about that yet."

"I know. But it's something to think about."

"Yeah, it is." Lorelai leaned down and kissed Rory's cheek. "We'll talk more about it later. I'm gonna go check on my guy."

She eased the bathroom door open, her eyes adjusting to the dim light of the afternoon sun shining weakly through the curtains. "Luke?" she asked softly, scanning the room. Her eye caught the haphazard pile of clothing on the floor before sliding to the bathtub. Luke sat slumped in the tub, his chin resting on his chest. A thin sheen of bubbles floated on the water, hitting Luke at about chest level. "Luke."

Angling his head up, he smiled slowly. "Hey," he said, his voice thick. He was definitely a little drunk, Lorelai deduced from the bleary look in his eyes. Her eyes widened when she saw the flask clutched in his right hand.

"You ok, babe?" she asked, kneeling down next to the tub.

"Yeah. Need more bubbles, but otherwise, I'm dandy," he said, his voice slurring slightly.

"So, help me out, here. It's the middle of the afternoon, you're taking a bath - which is weird enough in itself, and the bubbles are a total different story - and you're drunk. Wanna fill in the blanks?"

"I kind of hurt my back at work. Slipped in the storeroom."

"Oh my god! Luke! Are you ok? Is there any pain? Did you see a doctor?"

He raised the flask in salute. "Don't need to. Got my medicine right here."

Lorelai sighed, exasperated. "Rory failed to mention the flask," she muttered. Reaching across the tub, she gently took the flask out of his hand.

Luke looked confused. "Rory's home?"

"You don't remember seeing her? Or hearing her knock on the door earlier?"

"Nope. But I am a little drunk."

"Yes you are."

"A bath just seemed like a good idea for my back. I don't have a tub at my place, just a shower."

"I don't care if you use the tub, although I'll definitely be mocking you about your choice of mango scented bath bubbles later."

"I like mango." He smirked. "I like it better on you."

"Ha ha." Lorelai pushed back a lock of hair off his forehead. "Seriously, Luke, you have to tell me if you're in any pain. Do you need to go to the hospital?"

Luke shook his head. "Can't stand hospitals. You know that."

"I know, hon, but if you're really hurt, we have to go."

"We?"

"Yeah, we."

"I like that." He leaned over a little to kiss her cheek. "I'll be fine.I can't feel much of anything right now."

"All hail the numbing effects of alcohol." She brushed her knuckles over his bristly cheek. "Do me a favor, huh?"

"What's that?"

"Call me when stuff like this happens."

"It was really fine. I didn't want to worry you."

"And I love that about you, but part of being in a relationship is not having to do everything alone. Even Mr. Fix-It needs a helping hand now and then."

Luke sobered up a little, an oddly serious look in his eyes. "I do need you. You know that, right?"

She smiled. "I know. And I need you - healthy, if you don't mind." She rested her forehead against his, breathing in deeply. All she wanted to do at the moment was climb in the tub with him, lean against his chest, and let everything else fade away. He had that effect on her. She pressed a kiss to his nose, his cheek, finally letting her mouth touch his. She kissed him slowly, thoroughly, not even minding the lingering taste of scotch on his lips. It fit him, somehow.

Reluctantly, Lorelai pulled back slightly. "Hmm, you know, I didn't think it was possible. but you just keep getting better at that."

He chuckled, the laugh rumbling in his throat. "I guess there's always room for improvement."

She pecked him on the lips again. "You really are an exceptional kisser."

"That's what all the girls tell me." She cocked an eyebrow. "But you're the only one I want to share my skills with, of course."

"That's what I thought." Acknowledging the dull pain from kneeling on the tile floor, Lorelai rose and sat on the closed toilet seat. "You sure you're ok?"

"Fine. Just need some more bubbles."

"That I can do." Reaching for the bottle, Lorelai turned the hot water faucet with the other hand. She mixed some of the bubble bath into the stream of water until the top of the bath water was frothy with mango bubbles. "There, all bubbly."

"See, you can play Florence Nightingale right here, no hospital visit needed."

"I don't have the outfit," she said playfully.

"I've got a pretty good imagination."

"Why, Luke Danes, I do believe that calls for a 'dirty!'"

"Since we're on the subject, I do happen to have plenty of room left in here."

"I would love to join you, but the kid is home."

"Raincheck?"

"You better believe it," she said vehemently. She rose from the toilet seat. "You finish up here