I. The Wives Are In Connecticut.

Robyn was having a really shitty day.

The day had started unravelling, pulling frantically at the web that willed her through the day and was nearing the end of its string, the moment that her pack of red biro pens had exploded all over her brand new brown leather bag, leaving her to play a dangerous game of Schrödinger's Cat — will it or won't it be ruined? Will her hands come back clean or a screaming red? It felt like she was rummaging around in the belly of an oily beast. Then, she'd been pulled out of history, her favourite class, to discuss her dwindling attendance with the guidance counsellor and, although the school were "sympathetic to her situation," otherwise known as the incompetent-father-shaped hole in her chest, curated by daddy dearest himself who couldn't string himself together into some semblance of a man long enough to reach the front door, they were struggling to justify her attendance drifting from orange quarters to red.

Not to mention the fact that both Kirk and Taylor had been harassing her, at the same time, before coffee, early in the morning, asking for the same ABBA CD that she didn't even have, leaving her to do nothing but fix her withering stare on the borderline empty tip jar and seriously consider the side effects of chugging bleach and blacklisting them both.

Forgetting the Doose/Gleason ABBA scandal, which Robyn was desperately trying to do, pulling at the ridges and grooves of her brain like she was both on the operating table and, paradoxically, operating on herself in some sick attempt to perform a memory-altering surgery in search for any kind of distraction despite the fact it could be front page of the Gazette tomorrow, the store had been relatively empty, leaving her to lean on the counter and pour over her essay on the Romantic era.

She was growing tired of the haunted gothic castles involved in Mary and Percy Shelley's reign and the cautionary tales of hubris, fingertips ink-kissed and aching.

The fact of the matter was Robyn had no qualms about writing—she loved it—but her copy of Frankenstein, with spine cracked and pages crumpled like nobody's business, was running out of room in the margins and she was having to move onto neon yellow Post-It Notes. Everything was a mess. She may as well have stuck a straw in her brain and let it pour right out onto the page. She was so consumed with wallowing in boredom and self-pity that she didn't even budge when the bell above the door jingled.

"Oh, Rob, thank God you're here!"

Robyn dropped her pen immediately, grateful for the distraction. "Where else would I be, Lane?"

Lane Kim, resident music buff and the sole reason Robyn's father's store was still in business, rushed towards the counter. She was breathless, like she had just run halfway across town, but she was excited. That much was clear. Robyn had been there when she had started her secret, underground music collection. She was the one holding up the floorboards, meaning Lane's urgent news was incredibly important to her too.

"I—just," she paused, catching her breath.

"Woah, hey, Road Runner, breathe," Robyn moved to pass her a bottled water from beneath the counter that she had been saving for later, bracelets clashing with every movement. "Where's the fire?"

Gulping down the water with a crazed look in her eyes, the Korean girl all but exclaimed, "I finished it! My ad, I finally finished it!"

Rob looked on in amused confusion.

"Your ad?" she asked, smiling as Lane passed her a yellow legal pad covered in big, bold writing.

"Yeah, someone might actually come forward and teach me how to play bass. Or the drums. Or the trumpet."

"Or the spoons," Rob interjected. "I hear Bootsy does a killer rendition of We Will Rock You."

"Ah, but you forget, Bootsy doesn't have the patience to teach. I saw him throw a paper at a pigeon the other day."

It was true, Bootsy had a foul temper and little patience for someone who sat on the corner surrounded by newspapers all day.

Pointing at the pages she had torn from the notepad, Lane asked, "So, what do you think?"

"I think... it's three pages long."

Three, double-sided, single-spaced pages long, in fact, listing all potential reasons someone, anyone, might be interested in teaching Lane Kim the way of the strings. Robyn had to admire her dedication; the passion was palpable, bursting out of her hollowed walls and secret boxes, the hideaway in her closet and the floorboards, like she was strung together by copper wire and music sheets.

"Yeah, so?"

"So, nobody's gonna read all of that in passing. You need it to be eye-catching," she flipped the notepad around, handing her childhood friend a pencil, "I mean, is the in-depth review of every song on Ziggy Stardust completely necessary?"

"I think so, yes." Backing down at the jump of Rob's brows, "Okay, yeah. Cut out half. Keep in Suffragette City though. And Moonage Daydream. And—"

"Lane."

"Okay, fine, cut it all out. That should be at least half, right?" She conceded, taking one page out of the pile.

"Right," Rob agreed.

"Okay, my inspirations?"

"Short and sweet. Dave Grohl. Led Zeppelin," she paused, looking outside at the sound of Mrs. Kim knocking frantically on the doors, yelling for Lane to hurry. "...The Menendez Brothers. Seriously, what is with that?"

Lane hardly moved from analysing her ad once more as Rob readjusted, leaning on her elbows again. "Oh, she still thinks rock music is the gateway to hardcore drugs."

"So, what does she think you're doing in here?"

"Talking about our Biology project."

"What Biology project?"

Lane smiled. "Exactly."

Robyn just laughed and left her to it for a few minutes, making a playlist on her small notepad that she'd burn onto a CD when she got home and moving to put Frankenstein away in her ink-ridden bag.

By that time, the Kim girl had crossed out the most irrelevant parts on her list (i.e. "I would pay you my life savings" and "you'll have to run your car around the block twice and wait at least five minutes for me at Luke's Diner so my mother isn't suspicious.") and placed her pencil down carefully.

"So, have you seen him yet?"

"Seen... who?"

"What do you mean, seen who? Seen him."

"Him, like, The Narrator?" Rob quipped.

"No, him him. The new kid, you know? The city boy. The misanthropist," she paused, taking notice of the lost look in Robyn's eye. "Oh, you've really been cooped up in here all morning, huh?"

"What gave it away? I feel like the mother in The Yellow Wallpaper. It's driving me insane." Robyn took a sip of her own water, "so? Spill."

Lane's mom knocked on the doors again, sending the Open/Closed sign rattling with each movement, but the upcoming, front-page-worthy gossip seemed more important than the structural integrity of her father's building.

"Okay, so, this morning, Miss Patty said that—"

"—Oh, the alarm bells are ringing already—"

"—she heard from Babette who heard from Kirk—"

"—he's such a gossip!—"

"—that Luke's nephew is coming to town."

"Luke has a nephew?"

Lane shrugged, "evidently. And apparently, he's bad news. Got kicked out and shipped away and everything."

"Wow," Robyn whistled, busying herself with organising the stacks of CDs to her left, dimples pulling at her cheeks with a growing smile. "So, is Fredo cute?"

Her friend's head shot up. In the time she had spent with Robyn in the past year and a half, she hadn't once heard her talk about boys beyond a heated debate about the sexiness of lead singers of Oasis and Blur and her admiring Jeff Buckley. "You interested?"

Rob just shrugged. A pretty face wouldn't hurt.

"Well, I have no idea, but Lorelai said he's a man of few words."

"Man of few words? Sounds dreamy."

"I completely agree. I like my men silent."

"Like Edward Scissorhands."

"Or Charlie Chaplin."

Rob bore her eyes into Lane, tone flat, "Charlie Chaplin?"

"Yeah, I like his moustache," Lane shrugged.

Their conversation transcended gossip and moved on to become mindless chatter whilst Lane returned to completing her listing and placed an order for some more mixes, having recently annotated Mojo's top-rated, with the sound of Mrs. Kim's familiar tune backing their melodies from outside.

"I should go before she tries to Howard Hughes me again."

"Have fun," Rob murmured, lighting a cigarette and moving to pin up the Kim girl's final product on the cork board that stood proudly behind the cashier's desk, if not off to the right, surrounded by memorabilia: a framed picture of Freddie Mercury at Wembley Stadium in '86, promotional posters from local bands and troubadours, business cards and event guides, pictures of Luke's.

"I'll try my best. See you," she called, stopping short when the door opened again. "Oh, hey Luke."

"Lane," he greeted, with his usual nod, "so, this is the record store..." came his familiar voice, pulling her attention from the corkboard.

Robyn turned around, taking another long drag of the cigarette and appraising the sight of Luke, coffee in hand, and the seventeen-year-old-shaped shadow that lingered behind him in an army-like camouflage shirt and a blue puffer with no function.

Luke turned to the Billy Idol wannabe with a hand raised. "Just... wait here."

"As opposed to...? Running round the maypole? Making daisy chains? I'm good."

Robyn smirked at that, looking down to put away the now-organised CDs as Luke stormed his way over, snatching the cigarette from her hand and smashing it down on a coaster with his usual, cold stare.

"Seriously?" she asked, casting a distracted look over to the lumberjack and putting Lane's discarded papers away, though she should be less than surprised considering Luke's freakish obsession with cleanliness and health.

"Yes, Robyn, seriously. It's a nasty habit. What are you even doing here? Why aren't you in school? Are you skipping—" he rattled off like oxygen wasn't free, casting a look back at his nephew.

His nephew, the new addition to the town, who wanted to be anywhere else.

That much had been obvious from the moment he stepped off the bus, army-green duffel bag in one hand, Kerouac book in the other. On The Road was his choice for the evening, an attempt to tame his growing disdain for the sudden expedition he'd unwillingly been sent on. It was easier to think of it that way—an expedition. A temporary trip until Liz came to terms with her neurosis and dealt with her line of drug-crazed suitors. A pit stop, at most. He thought about it, about being anywhere else, about roaming the streets of New York and finding his way into the record/book store that stood proudly near Washington Square Park, the entire length of his Uncle Luke's half-hearted, mediocre tour, divot between his brows unfaltering, not even as he was awkwardly greeted at the bottom of the bus steps, or as he watched a red-faced, sweating man arguing with someone half his size over a head of lettuce.

He and Luke had shared a few, communicative grunts, like two children talking in a language of their own, and continued in tense silence only punctured by Luke's naming of the quaint landmarks like he had a gun to his head and the cheery greetings of passersby.

Jess felt like he was in the ninth circle of Hell, having been dragged from his ceaseless routine of mayhem in New York where he was nothing but a blurry face in a crowded street to a town half its size, being forced to watch the relative he knew nothing about two days ago give an ivy-league worthy lecture on the dangers of smoking which he was sure to receive himself later, cautionary tales and example images and all.

The only consolation was the fact that the records here were cheap—so, incredibly cheap—and the building was, in layman's terms, cool.

It was old, rustic, and the neon Reprised Records sign outside was flickering. There was history etched into every curve and awning, and though Jess didn't know it, it was infused with the ghosts of Robyn's childhood. The spirits of her memories weighed down the floorboards and whispered and called out in the empty space, speaking in the name of music, gathering around her father's signed guitar hanging by the headstock in the far corner.

The girl just exhaled, unbothered by Luke's criticisms like it was a daily thing. (It was.) "Take a breath, Mussolini."

"I hate it when you call me that."

"Why? You like Il Dulce better?" she smirked.

Jess smirked. Luke just rolled his eyes. "Dictator jokes, funny. Real tasteful." He paused, eyes imploring. "So?"

"Class was cancelled so I came to work," Robyn told him and pointed at the cup in his hand. "That coffee for me?"

He looked down at it like he was shocked it was even there. "Oh, yeah, here. Take it"

And she did, gratefully. She was still thinking about her encounter with Taylor and Kirk. She shuddered.

The Mariano boy ventured further into the store, taking in the interior, hands in his pockets. He could see himself spending a lot of time there, considering Liz would end up keeping most of his CDs for herself, or forgetting them entirely. He was lucky if she sent his clothes.

The records took up the majority of the space, excluding the wall next to the door that was fully dedicated to CDs and mixtapes. Everything was organised into hip-high, wooden boxes, separated by genre. Robyn liked to reorganise them when she was mad. Or upset. Or both. There was something satisfying about having free reign over fields of LPs, and thousands of records in her hands. Two rows of boxes and crates trailed down the centre back to back, and others against either wall. One corner had her father's old guitar that he'd hung up not long after her mother left, and the other, a dark wooden table and orange vinyl couch, which was accompanied by an old record player passed down generations and a spare pair of headphones for anyone that wanted to experiment before they bought, considering they didn't have any listening booths like the place used to.

Kirk always came in and occupied the space though, like it was his own little corner of the world, and Robyn didn't have the heart to turn him away. On a weekday, you'd find him bopping his head and dancing in his seat like nobody could see him.

It was kind of sad, actually.

"Why was class cancelled?"

"A pipe burst, or something," she told him. "Why, what's up, Scrooge? Assuming you're not here to criticise my work ethic."

"Oh, God no, I just wanted to grab that mixtape thing..." he trailed off, clicking his fingers.

She nodded, moving to the shelf beneath the counter and grabbing the case that read Luke's Diner 2001 in big bold letters. "Yeah, sure thing. It's a little beyond your taste, but there's stuff on there for everyone."

"Don't worry about it, kid. Anything's better than Ceaser mumbling down my ear all night."

"Dirty," she mock gasped.

Luke just grumbled, "you spend too much time with the Gilmores."

"Tell me about it."

He slid some cash across the counter—way too much, considering Robyn enjoyed making new mixes instead of doing homework and their personalised products were only a dollar fifty.

"Who's your shadow?" She asked, nodding to Jess as the crooning of Ella Fitzgerald faded into Leonard Cohen's Suzanne and he moved on to the next genre.

"Ah, that's my nephew, Jess," he said, beckoning him over. "Jess, this is Robyn Kazansky. She works at the diner sometimes, so you guys will probably be seeing each other around."

"God forbid," Rob smirked at Luke's sudden uncomfortableness, turning to Jess. "Hey."

"Hi."

"Rob goes to Stars Hollow High too so... she could give you a real tour, or something?"

"Huh."

"And she basically runs this place. So, you need anything, she's the one you call."

"Cool."

His muted amusement and clear antagonism towards Luke was funny, but it was also painful to watch, hear, and make a conversation out of. Fair enough, he didn't want to be there, but sprouting mindless small talk was not a large task.

"Wow, Luke, he's monosyllabic. Just like you."

He just nodded in his usual gruff manner. Luke liked Robyn -- she was a good, hardworking kid that had been dealt a shitty hand, so he could withstand her humour if it meant that she stuck around and took his free food where he gave it.

"Yeah, we're a family of cavemen. Look, I'm not saying you two have to be Abbott and Costello, but at least be amicable, alright? No catty comments, no arguments in the diner, and no terrorising each other—"

"You got it, boss," Rob smiled.

"Whatever you say, Uncle Luke," Jess drawled, returning to flipping over the records.

Luke finally took the mixtape curated with the diner in mind and made his way to the door, pointing at his nephew who didn't make a move to leave. "I'm locking up at ten. Be there, don't, I don't care."

The bell jingled and left them in a peaceful lull, giving Robyn a chance to look over at the new boy.

It would be clear that he wasn't from Stars Hollow even if she didn't know that much, with his permanent scowl and rough voice telling all. There was a certain ruggedness you couldn't achieve in a small town (unless, of course, you were Luke Danes). He was clearly a loner, with a book in his back pocket, signalling that he was ready to read on the move instead of stopping to smell the roses once in a while and engage in hearty conversation with Miss Patty, which would be a sight in itself.

He pretended not to feel her eyes on him, doing nothing but flipping mindlessly through the stacks upon stacks of vinyl, looking for something new. He didn't even have his record player. It was stuffed in between his bed and bookshelf back home, where his mattress lay flat on the floor and his room was borderline empty.

"Good-looking, aren't I?"

Robyn scoffed but her dimples made another appearance, leaning forward to put her chin in her hand. "Until you opened your mouth."

Jess snickered.

It was nice to see someone in this hell-hole could bite back. He was beginning to worry he'd have to make sarcastic quips at the wall.

He picked up a book from the pile next to her, eyes flickering through the blurb. She just watched, tapping her fingers on the counter to the rhythm of the music in the background as her charcoal shirt sat loosely and her gold necklaces fell forward. She moved to take a sip of her coffee, completely unbothered by the silence occupied only by faint guitar riffs coming from the CD player behind her.

Luke made it just the way she liked it; three sugars to balance the bitterness and make it endurable.

Surveying the area again, as though he hadn't already committed it to memory, he said, "looks like Empire Records in here."

"Really? I was going for High Fidelity."

Jess smirked. "Little ambitious, don't you think?"

"Little much hair gel, don't you think?" Her dimples gave away her faux anger.

"Ouch, Kazansky." He brought his hand to his heart, her name feeling strangely familiar on his tongue, "and here I thought we were going to be the next award-winning comedy duo."

"Please. You realise you'd have to be funny for that, right?"

"You don't say."

The brunette moved to take the Eagles record from Jess' hands, scanning it and ringing it up as the day began to fall away from them.

"Ninety-nine cents."

"That all?"

He'd paid twenty dollars for a basic record back in the city. Maybe this, he could get used to.

Robyn just smiled a sweet, sardonic smile, "Think of it as compensation."

He slid her the money she asked for, and more, in exchange for the record, and made his way towards the door, acting completely nonchalant and uninterested. Acting as though the place didn't intrigue him almost as much as the girl behind the counter who was smirking and watching him walk away.

Great view.

"See ya, Corey Mason."

"Jerk," she muttered, packing up and getting ready to get home before Kirk returned to ask if she had the Voulez-Vous CD yet.

Jess turned on his heels, the corners of his mouth twitching upwards into a lopsided smirk that she was already growing sick of seeing. "What was that?"

"Enjoy."

He just gave her a sarcastic wave and crossed the way back into Luke's, itching for a smoke and to get his hands on a burger.

Maybe the day wasn't so shitty, after all.

She still had to get the ink out of her bag though.

Authors Note:
This is completely unedited and so crappy and mostly dialogue but I just wanted to get it out!!!! I love Robyn and I hope you do too