II. Classics.

The moon had rolled over and it was officially Saturday, pink hues overtaking the sky in a warning, meaning Robyn was free from her Romantic essays and debates on the importance of a parental figure to guide a new, impressionable mind (a topic she was well-versed in, no doubt, with her father having been passed out with a bottle in hand when she left him in the early morning) and she could get a shift in before the music fanatics of the town awoke, leaving the busy shift to Liam and Sasha, two overzealous kids she went to school with trying to earn a steady job.

Already having had the chance to visit the film shop and hear Kirk's raving about the impact of gorey films, the need for censorship, and his frequent night terrors after he watched It for the first time, she'd also picked up her choices for the classics themes "Film Church" the next day, which remained sat on the counter in its plastic bag, the logo wrinkled by the folds.

What ordinary people would consider a film night was not enough for Lorelai Gilmore, who insisted that Rory, Lane and Robyn's "film education" was imperative as it would "inform their wit and humour for years to come." Hence, Film Church, a weekend ritual where everyone would forget about their homework and would instead crowd around the Gilmore's living room with pizza and DVDs in hand. The week prior had been strictly sixties films, and this week was for classics.

With her selection discarded and plans for the week jotted down in her worn, pocket-sized, orange diary, Robyn was free to do as she pleased for the rest of the day; her friends would no doubt be studying, Rory being at Chilton and all, but Robyn completed her work when things got slow in the shop (which was, unfortunately, most of the time).

This freedom, apparently, involved hanging up a black and white poster of one of Robyn's favourite designers with red thumbtacks in the little free space behind the counter. Standing on the tiny step ladder with her charcoal shirt finding its way out of her jeans, she'd hardly noticed the bell signal someone entering (once again), more focused on preventing her finger from getting caught in the crossfire between the poster and the wall.

They really ought to make those things louder. More whimsical.

"Vivienne Westwood?" came a voice.

Hardly throwing a glance over her shoulder and just barely registering the boy, Robyn faced the final slanted product, seeing if she could push the final thumbtack through some more.

"The true pioneer of punk." Stepping down from the ladder and folding it up, she turned to the new boy, "you know Vivienne Westwood?"

Not that it would've been hard to decipher who she was -- her name was printed along the top in large, white, graffiti-like letters.

Jess just shrugged noncommittally, shoving his hands in his pockets. Rob wondered if she should be worried he pocketed a guitar pick from the pencil holder or something. "I'm no stranger to the punk movement. Or fashion, for that matter."

"I find that hard to believe."

Jess's lips curled up ever so slightly, although she couldn't see regardless considering she had moved to the small box of new arrivals sat in the empty, red-cushioned stool next to her, only hearing his rifling through the plastic bag she left out in the open.

She was always moving. It reminded him of the city, the ceaseless noise and streams of people populating the street every night. People with so much to do, so many destinations in mind, they quite literally didn't have time to stop. To pause, and take it all in. He figured she would do well there, in the centre of it all.

"And I find it hard to be insulted by someone watching Good Will Hunting," he paused, flipping over the DVD cover, contemplating his final opinion. "God."

"Hey," she began. "Don't discredit Good Will Hunting. It's classic film night tomorrow."

"And this is your contribution?" He made a noise of disapproval, "Your friends are gonna be sorely disappointed."

Robyn almost scoffed. "Excuse you?"

"This is not a classic."

"Oh, my God. Do you have any taste?"

"I do, which is exactly how I know that this?" he lifted it in his hand, tone bordering on playful although he was serious. "Not a classic."

Jess didn't know why he was being so chatty. In all honesty, neither did Robyn. In the few days he'd been in town, he had managed to establish himself as a grumbler. Monosyballic. A hermit, like Luke, though God forbid you make the comparison. Maybe living above the diner meant he was more caffeinated than usual; free coffee seemed almost too tempting. Like the apple calling to Eve.

Or maybe it was something about Robyn. Some inexplicable quality that made you want to tear open your stomach and spill your guts. It was most likely the fact that she didn't look like she was going to strike him down the moment he said something remotely sarcastic, or the way she innocently tapped her fingers to the beat of Shine A Light as though she didn't know she was doing it. Perhaps Jess thought, somewhere, subconsciously, he had found someone like him, having seen her smoking in the face of Luke and smiling despite his criticism, dimples impeding her cheeks.

He had met someone who breezed through life the way she did his monotony. It felt like a weight off his shoulders.

"Care to explain?" she urged, as though recognising the signs of his sudden self-awareness. His being somewhere else, but physically present.

Shaking off the analysis, he mockingly leaned forwards like they were two scientists discussing what made the world go round (which, arguably, film does). "Well, for one, it doesn't remotely fit the criteria--"

"--well if I had known about the criteria--"

"And it's just Matt Damon's attempt to make himself seem smarter than he actually is."

"Or, pessimist, it's a story about wasted potential," Robyn argued, snatching the DVD from his hand. "The guy was a genius stuck in construction and janitorial work -- didn't Silberman say "the mind is a terrible thing to waste"?"

The Mariano boy almost smirked. Maybe not everyone was going to fill the mould he expected them to: small-minded, uneducated, oblivious to the world outside of their bubble in some remote corner of the universe.

"I don't think the mind he was talking about belonged to Matt Damon."

Robyn smiled sarcastically. "Well, he certainly wasn't talking about yours, either."

Jess breezed past that, pointing a finger at her, his chunky watch reflecting the light through the window. "The tortured genius trope is not half the hit you think it is."

"Oh, yeah?" she leaned forwards, elbows on the counter, dimple pulling at the one side of her half-smile, and Jess would've been intimidated if not for the humour swimming in her eyes, wrinkled at the sides, framed by her dark eyelashes.

She exuded this kind of light that Jess seemed to be drawn to, pulling him closer to the other side of the counter, staring her down like they were in a Western shoot-off. Despite seeming outwardly casual, indifferent if not slightly mischievous (with a smile that curled like hers, it was hard not to feel like she had some secret you weren't in on, like she held the plans for the universe in her back pocket, the answers to any question you've ever had), Robyn Kazansky was entrancing.

God, he felt suffocated here.

"Yeah," he smirked, almost challenging her.

She paused in thought, as though debating with herself — concede and let the new boy win? — almost testing how long he could hold her eye. Seeing if this confidence was a facade. Some brusque sort of coping mechanism that was supposed to assert masculinity and intimidation in the face of the unknown.

And the en she let it all out at once. "Rain Man. A Beautiful Mind. Shine. All considered classics - need I go on?"

He maintained his position for a moment more, suddenly raising his hands in defence, jacket collar briefly brushing his jaw.

"Alright, alright. Today, I concede," he said, with the demeanour of someone that wasn't truly losing. "Still think the guy's a self-centred jerk, though."

And she just smiled. Jess almost felt like he should, too.

"Everyone's entitled to their opinion, I guess," she shrugged, beginning to walk away. "And don't think I didn't see you skip over Almost Famous in there," gesturing to the bag.

"Well that, on the other hand, is a classic if there's ever been one."

She paused, giving him a single nod. "Something we can agree on."

The conversation lulled there, and Robyn half-expected him to walk out or browse through the genres whilst she replayed Cameron Crowe's masterpiece of a scene — Polexia running around in her flowing shirt, chased with a guitar around the warm, homely room, representing everything Robyn has ever associated with the word "free" — in her head. Considering Jess hadn't spent too long in there when Luke was showing him around a few days prior, it was likely he was just going to wander around once more.

But he didn't. He was rooted in that spot on the other side of the counter, watching her get lost in an Almost Famous daydream as she began categorising the new CDs in a way he didn't really understand.

And why would he? Everything he owned had a home in some torn-up, water-damaged box he never intended to unpack.

Her fluidity made it seem like she'd done this a thousand times before.

Instead of hearing some signal that he had disappeared, almost like a spirit in the fog, Robyn was greeted with the sound of the Ramones crackling to life under the weight of the record player's needle, seemingly soothing the New York native.

He'd probably played this record hundreds of times back home, sat on the fire escape, cigarette falling apart in his hands. His mom hated it — she always told him, on the days she cared, he'd fall one day.

Maybe, if he was lucky.

"Can I ask..." she hesitated, bringing the CD case away from her face and letting it rest in her hand as she folded one arm over the other, leaning forward on the counter. The stacks of bracelets winding around her wrist danced with the movement. "What exactly are you doing here, Jess?"

Robyn danced around curiosity like a cat. That is to say, sometimes she just couldn't help herself. The satisfaction of knowing, the pursuit of understanding, was something she chased in her dreams, some nights.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, you're not exactly buying anything. And I'm assuming you're not here to criticise my taste in film, so..."

He almost seemed uncomfortable, like he'd been caught out, the way he was adjusting the cuffs of his jacket like that. "What, I can't come visit you at work?"

"You could, but you wouldn't."

"Oh yeah, how'd you figure?"

God, this was not how she expected this to go.

"Because you've known me for, like, three days, if that. And probably because every time I've seen you, you've barely mustered up more than two syllables at any time. Forgive me for thinking you stopping by just to chat was out of character."

She was kidding. Mostly.

She was sure the sarcasm was there, clear as day.

"Well can you blame me? The whole... To Kill A Mockingbird, small-town utopia thing isn't really my kind of scene. A little narrow-minded for my taste."

"Go figure. City boy like you?"

The playfulness could have dissipated before them in a cloud of smoke. Someone may as well have brought in a vacuum and just sucked all the joy right out of the air. Seems like an on-the-nose job for Taylor — maybe he was poking around somewhere, burning with questions about his ABBA CD.

"Look, you don't know anything about me—"

"Like why you're here, at this very moment?" she muttered under her breath, sifting through the CDs she'd already checked over ten times just to redirect her attention, to busy her hands.

"Not to be psychoanalysed, that's for sure!"

"We ever getting to that "why you're here" bit?" she grimaced. There were much better things she could be doing with her time, instead of standing there like an ass, arguing with a guy she just met, just 'cause she couldn't keep her mouth shut.

Jess paused at that, debating his next words. The sudden silence seemed to bring some element of reality back to the both of them; this was so dramatic. So juvenile. What was the point?

"Luke's talkative... whatever she is said you'd know where all the supposed wilding goes on. I was curious, alright? Thought I might check it out."

He was shifting the pressure from one leg to another, uncomfortable and suddenly very warm.

Robyn almost scoffed a laugh. "Wilding? In Stars Hollow? Before 10 PM?"

Jess backed away, although slowly, like he'd been rejected. Like he'd tried to understand an inside joke between two lifelong friends. "Alright, I get it."

She smirked, "does Taylor know about this? He'd have a field day."

"Forget about it."

"He'll have his reenactment soldiers on standby—"

"—I'll see you around."

He'd almost made it halfway to the door, dodging the corner of the boxes that Robyn almost always bumped her hip on, leaving her to stand in a silent debate. Maybe it was a stupid idea. Maybe she was just as cross-eyed crazy as everyone else he'd encountered thus far.

"Just..." her voice rang out. Jess almost amusedly turned around, hands in pockets, gruff look back. Tough guy. She could've rolled her eyes. "Give me fifteen to catalogue this shit, and I'll give you a tour. Of sorts."

"Of sorts?" He echoed.

Rob did roll her eyes that time. "Yes, it's very refined. I think you'll find it rivals any tour bus you've ever been on."

Not that Jess had ever actually been on a tour bus. He always mocked the tourists back home. Relentlessly.

He smirked. How was it they could go from so intensely annoyed to calm in a split second? The teenage mind truly was a marvel, but he wouldn't divulge just now.

"I'm gonna hold you to that," he pointed to her. "But you should know, New York has tour buses like no other."

She all but waved him off. "Meet you at Luke's?"

"I do live there," he nodded.

"Smart-ass."

The cataloguing of new arrivals had taken her about five minutes, so Robyn figured she had time to get a coffee before she was rushed off into the night with an almost complete stranger who, evidently, had a very sensitive temper and poor taste in films.

On her way, however, she had been intercepted more times than she would have liked, although something told her Jess was not the punctual kind anyhow.

Lane had initially tagged along, wanting to send Rob in for a coffee, but ultimately deciding she couldn't go all the way to the Diner out of fear her mother would smell the grease on her clothes and immediately banish her to Bible study, population: Lane. Again. It was too risky with their more fitting Film Church taking place the next night when her mother would conveniently believe she was studying with Rory and Robyn.

(Studying Matt Damon's abs, sure).

Kirk had also joined along the way, briefly, inquiring about the CDs she had just departed with. As did Morey, and where he goes, Babette goes, with her water-cooler-worthy gossip that would only keep her sustained for the next few hours.

"—and then she slammed the door right in his face! Oh, you should've seen him, sugar! Poor guy. Only lives with his mother," came her croaky voice as the bell above the door jingled, signalling their arrival that shouldn't have taken as long as it did, and Robyn (though nodding along enthusiastically) felt some sort of guilty relief and the sight of Lorelai Gilmore.

"Sorry, Babette, but I should really go tell Lorelai—"

"Oh, you go ahead honey. Miss Patty is gonna wanna hear about this."

The short blonde all but shoved Robyn in Lorelai's direction. Unsurprisingly, she sat at the counter, eagerly awaiting a refill, and sent over a wave when she heard her daughter's friend's melodic voice. The sound of Babette and Miss Patty gossiping filled the empty space in Luke's, which was once more suffering from a lull. Business in Stars Hollow could sure get lonely.

"Hey, honey," she said, smiling as her cup was filled and watching amusedly as Robyn threw herself into the stool opposite her, taking the plastic bag of DVDs from her leather handbag and dropping them unceremoniously on the counter. "Watcha got?"

Lorelai had immediately taken to Robyn, the day Rory and Lane had singled her out in the sandbox and decided she would complete their trio — she would be the combination of books and music that bridged them both. When Robyn's own mother had left and Lane's mother began her asinine restrictions, Lorelai had taken a stand. It was something both girls were extremely grateful for to this day, and that cemented their friendship with Rory for life.

Luke had already taken out a deep red mug and began filling it with coffee — decaf — and preparing his health lecture for the second time that week whilst the girls embarked on their film-related psychobabble he never quite got the hang of.

"Now, don't go all Psycho on me, okay?"

"That's not one of your choices, is it? Rory picked that one out at home," the single mother jested.

"Where is Ror, anyway?" The curly-haired girl enquired.

"Take a guess."

"Studying?" At the nod of her mother's head, Robyn sighed. "Ah, figures."

"So - what are we looking at?"

"Good Will Hunting, Almost Famous, Dirty Harry, Poor Little Rich Girl."

Lorelai frowned. "Andy Warhol?"

"I know, but Edie Sedgwick. The original muse," Robyn smiled.

They'd debated the narcissism and general dislike of Andy Warhol (on the silver screen and canvas) a few nights before, Lorelai launching into the Andy/Christopher comparisons and the girls sneaking away popcorn whilst she wasn't looking. They concluded that they didn't even like Pop Art all that much, except for the fact it sounded like Pop Tart, and that the only thing he was good for was the silver hair.

"Says who?"

"Patti Smith."

"Get out!" the Gilmore said in disbelief, as though gossiping about old friends. "When?"

"In Seventh Heaven," Robyn nodded, thanking Luke for her coffee and taking a sip. "Said she had a radiating intelligence too."

"How cool. People dream about having Patti Smith talk about them like that."

"Tell me about it! Patti Smith's validation is the only one I need—"

"—No. Okay, I can't take this anymore. Please, Robyn, for the love of God, put that coffee down, Luke interjected, like he couldn't hold it in a second longer, despite the decaf handle.

Robyn's insides would rot and she wouldn't care so long as there was sugar or caramel involved.

The girl smiled. Her brunette curls had become frizzy on the walk over, as brief as it may have been, and she had to smooth them out with her hands. "Why, you afraid it'll lead to the harder stuff?"

"I'm afraid it's gonna kill you," Luke told her. "It stunts your growth, you know?"

"Well, I'm not looking to model on the runway as of yet, Luke."

"Are you looking to live?"

"Only as long as I'm caffeinated."

"Impossible," he muttered, turning away and busying himself elsewhere as though the mere sight of Robyn drinking coffee was going to give him a coronary.

It was at that moment that Jess deemed it safe to reveal himself from behind the curtain — a lovely, effective use of cloth, by the way — as though the prize in some game show you'd see in the Friday night reruns. Maybe he'd caught some Harry Houdini clips on the old-fashioned TV in Luke's living quarters. (He very well couldn't call it a home, now, could he? It wasn't even made to be lived in.) He looked almost purposefully dishevelled, hair gelled in every which way, yet somehow seemingly more intentional than it had been twenty minutes ago. Pausing at the bottom of the stairs, he looked up from his Kerouac, somewhat shocked as though he'd expected Robyn to be a no-show. As if she hadn't literally just told him she'd be fifteen.

He nodded towards her and she smiled, forgetting about Luke's distress and Lorelai's dislike for anything Warhol. She wasn't there for a chat.

Placing his book in his back pocket, even if it meant it had to be folded in half, he asked, "You ready?"

"Yeah," she told him, rising from her seat, grabbing her ink-ridden bag. "Luke, could I get this death in a to-go cup, please?"

The man, although unhappily grumbling, poured the remainder of her coffee into a paper cup and refilled it to the brim. He reasoned he would take it off her paycheck or something.

(He wouldn't.)

Whilst Luke was distracted and seemingly unbothered by their sudden acquaintanceship, Lorelai frowned, lowering her voice but not so much that she couldn't be heard as Robyn grabbed her bag, stuffing the DVDs inside, and then placing that bag in her leather one.

"Uh, seriously?"

Robyn looked up, confused. Jess just lingered by the end of the counter, like he knew it was best to keep his distance. As if Lorelai's quiet but stern tone wasn't enough of a hint. "What?"

"You got big plans tonight?"

"Well, we're not hitting the Chelsea Hotel or anything, but I guess so." The girl slowed her movement, confused. "Why?"

"I just... Sid Vicious, really?" Lorelai leaned closer, nodding her head almost aggressively towards Jess.

"Wasn't it you that offered me up to show Indiana Jones through the jungle?" Robyn asked.

"Yes, but—"

Lorelai was poor at hiding her dislike for the boy, the basis of which had very little substance but the bad feeling in her gut and everything that went down the night Jess got to town — the stolen beer, the "Dr. Laura" comment, the accusing her of sleeping with Luke just for singing his praises — all of which Robyn was blissfully unaware of. Even if she hadn't been, she probably wouldn't have blamed him. If her father had shipped her off to some random place with a whacky name to stay with some family she had never met before and a complete stranger was on her back, she'd probably be pissed off too.

Jess was just an angry kid.

So was Lorelai, once.

"Oh, that's great," Luke interrupted, suddenly full of joy. Robyn was a responsible kid. She wouldn't show Jess where he could knock over a liquor store or anything. He looked at Lorelai with a smile, like he'd just been hit with a tranq dart full of the fun stuff and couldn't quite grasp her confusion. He turned to Jess, "I want you back by ten, no later. And I want her home safe. Understand?"

"Whatever you say, Uncle Luke."

Luke was really beginning to get sick of that, waving his checkered rag in his direction. "Get out of here."

Grabbing her cup, suddenly full once more, Robyn all but dragged Jess out of the Diner with her free hand, bunching up his jacket sleeve. "Come on."

"Hey, watch the jacket!"

"Oh, quit whining, James Dean. You asked for this,"she told him, all but pushing him through the door with one hand, and turning to wave goodbye.

The adults sat at the counter, watching them go, slowing to a normal, less urgent pace once they were actually out of the door.

Lorelai turned to her friend sharply. "You sure that's such a good idea?"

"What?" Luke asked, distractedly, almost as if he were savouring the moment to be scrapbooked later.

"Jess and Rob."

The man looked towards them, seeing his nephew and a girl he'd known since her birth actually talking, bumping shoulders when Jess said something undoubtedly sarcastic, framed by the panels of the window like a movie scene.

"Yeah. I think it's a good idea."

Author's Note: a ton of dialogue in this one I'm sorry! Unedited. Will change that soon.

Every time I have exams, I watch Gilmore Girls, and every time I watch Gilmore Girls, I want to come back to this fic so I'm putting off my revision to get this out there.