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Written by: fulfilled
Disclaimer: All characters and situations from Gilmore Girls are properties of Amy Sherman-Palladino, Dorothy Parker Drank Here Productions and Hofflund/Polone in association with Warner Bros. Television. No copyright infringement intended.
Logan looked down at the two cups of coffee stacked in his hand and shook his head. The four bolts clicked into place with--it seemed--deafening "thunks," and and as he heard the chain slide into its place, he wished he had the power to reach through the door and touch her. She was less than three feet away--she was so close that he could still hear her fiddling with the locks--yet for all the good that did, she may have been as far away from him as Hartford Rory was from Stars Hollow Rory.
He absentmindedly took a sip from the top coffee cup and immediately grimaced, looking for a place to spit it out. It was cold. Disgusting. He didn't even want to think about how long it had been since he'd bought them.
Her footsteps faded as she walked further into the apartment. Away from the door, away from the locks, away from him. A more subtle rejection, perhaps, than every other time she had run away from him already this week, but the end result was still the same. She wasn't near him, and she wasn't walking towards him.
God help him, but he had no idea why he wanted her beside him, anyways. She had turned into the exact antithesis of everything that he had fallen for, and yet, by that point, she had already wormed her way deeply enough into his heart that he was prepared to stand by her, take her hand, and walk her back to normality. Normal for a Gilmore, that is.
He had tried to walk away, told Honor that he had already walked away, seen the triumph cross his mother's face. The Botox could hide most emotion, but this victory was, apparently, too sweet to be hidden, even by the chemicals.
Yes, at first, walking away had been easy. It hadn't been too difficult to drown the pangs of his failed attempt at being a "real boyfriend" in alcohol, in Finn and Colin's company, in the arms of the women he picked up at the bar each night, even in the turkey dinner that he suffered through with his family at Thanksgiving. There were mountains of blame to cast, and it was easy to see everyone else's faults in the whole situation. Rory, for expecting too much of him. Jess, for showing up and pushing them to the breaking point. His father, for starting the whole thing. Emily, for turning Rory into the clone she had always wanted. Lorelai, for waiting for Rory to come to her senses on her own. Paris, for just being, well, Paris--something had to be her fault, didn't it? He had every right to walk away, or so he told himself.
At night, though, Logan was haunted by constant replays of their last confrontation. He saw himself, night after night, in vivid technicolor detail, throwing money on the table, as though she was a prostitute who had failed to satisfy him. Storming out of the bar. Sitting in the car, a block down the road, waiting to see if she would come looking for him or if she would chase Jess (because he knew all along what his name really was) back to wherever it was he was staying. Peeling away without looking back when it took her nearly an hour to emerge. The image that stuck with him for two months was Rory leaving the bar, head held high, a sense of determination in her step that he hadn't seen in months.
If all it took was getting rid of him to give her back her confidence, then good riddance. He wasn't going to be her scapegoat. He would be the first one to leave for good. Let her be the one to call, and beg, and plead for things to go back to the way they were.
He hadn't heard from her by Christmas, however, and he began to suspect that things were really different. Somehow, when Logan wasn't looking, Rory had reclaimed her own personality and was wading through the bad decisions and the lost moments of the past months, trying to make sense of herself again. He knew it intuitively, somehow, discreetly picking up pieces of information from the society gossip that there was never a shortage of, and filling in the rest with the Rory he knew.
He heard footsteps moving around the apartment again, drawing him back to the poorly-lit hallway with the stains on the carpet, and he turned and walked towards the stairs, wanting to get out of the building before the locks started clicking again and Rory emerged from her room. He didn't want her to find him waiting. Not yet. He would do this slowly, winning her back one piece of her heart at a time. And it would take time, but for once, Logan Huntzberger was willing to be the patient one--willing, for the first time in his life, to be the humble one, admitting he was wrong, and asking for forgiveness.
Yes, she would take more time than he had ever given anyone before, but this time, he knew she would be worth it.
And next time, he'd bring the coffee in a thermos.
He absentmindedly took a sip from the top coffee cup and immediately grimaced, looking for a place to spit it out. It was cold. Disgusting. He didn't even want to think about how long it had been since he'd bought them.
Her footsteps faded as she walked further into the apartment. Away from the door, away from the locks, away from him. A more subtle rejection, perhaps, than every other time she had run away from him already this week, but the end result was still the same. She wasn't near him, and she wasn't walking towards him.
God help him, but he had no idea why he wanted her beside him, anyways. She had turned into the exact antithesis of everything that he had fallen for, and yet, by that point, she had already wormed her way deeply enough into his heart that he was prepared to stand by her, take her hand, and walk her back to normality. Normal for a Gilmore, that is.
He had tried to walk away, told Honor that he had already walked away, seen the triumph cross his mother's face. The Botox could hide most emotion, but this victory was, apparently, too sweet to be hidden, even by the chemicals.
Yes, at first, walking away had been easy. It hadn't been too difficult to drown the pangs of his failed attempt at being a "real boyfriend" in alcohol, in Finn and Colin's company, in the arms of the women he picked up at the bar each night, even in the turkey dinner that he suffered through with his family at Thanksgiving. There were mountains of blame to cast, and it was easy to see everyone else's faults in the whole situation. Rory, for expecting too much of him. Jess, for showing up and pushing them to the breaking point. His father, for starting the whole thing. Emily, for turning Rory into the clone she had always wanted. Lorelai, for waiting for Rory to come to her senses on her own. Paris, for just being, well, Paris--something had to be her fault, didn't it? He had every right to walk away, or so he told himself.
At night, though, Logan was haunted by constant replays of their last confrontation. He saw himself, night after night, in vivid technicolor detail, throwing money on the table, as though she was a prostitute who had failed to satisfy him. Storming out of the bar. Sitting in the car, a block down the road, waiting to see if she would come looking for him or if she would chase Jess (because he knew all along what his name really was) back to wherever it was he was staying. Peeling away without looking back when it took her nearly an hour to emerge. The image that stuck with him for two months was Rory leaving the bar, head held high, a sense of determination in her step that he hadn't seen in months.
If all it took was getting rid of him to give her back her confidence, then good riddance. He wasn't going to be her scapegoat. He would be the first one to leave for good. Let her be the one to call, and beg, and plead for things to go back to the way they were.
He hadn't heard from her by Christmas, however, and he began to suspect that things were really different. Somehow, when Logan wasn't looking, Rory had reclaimed her own personality and was wading through the bad decisions and the lost moments of the past months, trying to make sense of herself again. He knew it intuitively, somehow, discreetly picking up pieces of information from the society gossip that there was never a shortage of, and filling in the rest with the Rory he knew.
He heard footsteps moving around the apartment again, drawing him back to the poorly-lit hallway with the stains on the carpet, and he turned and walked towards the stairs, wanting to get out of the building before the locks started clicking again and Rory emerged from her room. He didn't want her to find him waiting. Not yet. He would do this slowly, winning her back one piece of her heart at a time. And it would take time, but for once, Logan Huntzberger was willing to be the patient one--willing, for the first time in his life, to be the humble one, admitting he was wrong, and asking for forgiveness.
Yes, she would take more time than he had ever given anyone before, but this time, he knew she would be worth it.
And next time, he'd bring the coffee in a thermos.
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