This takes place after 'Keg! Max!'

Disclaimer: I, of course, do not own anything Gilmore Girls, i have created a few original characters i'm sure you'll recognize them when you see them.

Enjoy, and if you like it leave a review.

I wish I could say that this was a once upon a time story, but not many one upon time stories, start with once upon time there was a kegger. Perhaps I could say once upon a time there was a boy and girl, who were never really right for each other; perfect opposites, but somehow at the exact same moment; the same. They could be friends, and they could be more than friends. He had, in teenage bad boy style, issues, deep stemming abandonment issues that caused him to be introverted, quiet, and hostile, and two years after they had first met, starting out as near-enemies, ending as a couple, he left her. However, not before the aforementioned Kegger. I'm sure you can imagine what happened, a keg, a loud band, a broody boy hanging out in an upstairs bedroom waiting for his girlfriend to come and find him. I think they loved each other, but I can never know for sure.

He left her and when he came back, everyone had some choice words for him. His own uncle wanted to throw him down on the sidewalk and kick him until he found a way to turn back time. His girlfriend's mother wanted to spit in his face, and shout as many curses that could be strung together in one breath, and she did. The girlfriend's grandparents wanted to string him up by a tree and dismember him, but stood for a verbal abuse in which they ended up the good ones. The girlfriend, wanted a future she wanted to take the big envelopes she received from Yale, Princeton and Harvard and brood over them, and create pro's and con's lists, she wanted to take long winded classes where the whole premise was books on undeterminable origin, and meaning. She wanted to be a writer and travel the world, she didn't want a baby. But have one she did. Feeling shunned and useless she pleaded with him, to take her away; to take her away from the shell-shocked looked on her mothers face, from the ariant stares of the townspeople, from the angry and bitter tone of her grandmother. Grudgingly, he did, and in doing so he scrapped his last little bit of dignity, begging money off his father. Retracing all the time he never spent with him, all the hardship he had to go through because he was not there, Jimmy Mariano sent a check and never saw his son again. So there they were, eighteen years old, shacked up, knocked up, in a tiny part of New York City trying their best to get by, trying their best to get along. This is, I suppose, where I come in. I'm Addy, or I guess you can call me Addicus. I was born in New York City under begrudging pretences, maybe not unhappy, but I was not their first course of action. This is me, the illegitimate son, of Rory Gilmore and Jess Mariano. Grandson of Lorelai Gilmore, Christopher Hayden, Liz Danes and Jimmy Mariano. Some days I lay awake, questioning myself, but I didn't chose to be born, that's what my Dad said to me once, it's not a choice I made, and it's not a choice they made, but it was a choice he was glad to have. When I was 14, in a hard and questioning place in my life, I asked my Dad to tell me the true story; the whole story, and he did.

Jess received a phone call in California, which he did not expect, since he told no one, where he was. Luckily Lorelai would tell him later, Mariano's in California are not that popular, she only reached fifteen dead ends, before getting a surly Jimmy. As Jess took the long bus ride back to the small town, and the small town people he was so keen on escaping, I wonder what he thought. Did he think about Rory, and how he still loved her? Did he think about that night? With the pounding music in the background, both a little drunk and did he wonder whether it was worth derailing his life? Did he worry about people's reaction? Or did he knead his eyebrows over the future? But then again it's a long bus ride; I think he might have had room, for all of them. Rory was content being like her mother in many ways, her addiction to caffeine-loaded beverages, her obsession with strange movies, and even stranger take-out food, and her dry sense of humour. But Rory did not want to be the kind of person that got pregnant at 18. She had always been the good girl, the valedictorian of her high school prep class, the girl that had been called Mary, the girl who had her first kiss at 16, the girl who preferred books to boys most of the time. Her mother despite her volcano blowing anger, disappointment and pity was adamant that it would not be so bad after all. She had gone the same route and it had all worked out for her, in the end. That conversation left the nail in the coffin, there would be no abortion, no adoption, this baby was hers and she was keeping it.

I was born, on January 7th, 2004, in New York City. They named me Addicus Paul Mariano. I hate to think what their first few days were alone with me, in their tiny apartment where the colicky wails of a newborn bounced off the walls, and filled the air with mind-bending noise. They persevered, they did their best. Just as the eviction note was about to be displayed, just as the dejected return to Stars Hollow seemed ominous, Rory found a job. It wasn't a good job, the pay was in the gutter, and the thought of pride was flushed away, as she brought coffee to all the writers at the New York Chronicle. She answered their phones, addressed their envelopes and made their coffee, bidding her time until her moment would come. It did come, it took time, it took patience, but she did it, and by the time I was 11 months old, her life was on track again. She had coveted the job she always wanted, a journalist, for the London Chronicle. They discussed it, and they decided against telling their families. They didn't tell a soul, they applied for green cards, they got plane tickets and they left the country.

I don't remember the place I was born, the little apartment we lived in, I don't remember the look on my Mom's face when she came home glowing with a grin that stretched from ear to ear, I don't remember my Dad picking her up giggling and running around the room, I don't remember that, but it happened. The first apartment they had in England wasn't much bigger than the one they had in New York, but they had a new sense of purpose, a renewed hope. Everyday Rory went off to work, covering the smallest stories, the ones with the least importance, and she did them, she put all of her energy, all of her strength into making those little articles the best articles. Jess was proud of her, proud of her when she came home late and left early, proud of her when he stayed at home and took care of me, proud of her when they cut out her articles and tacked them on the walls. Genuine newspaper articles, written by Rory Gilmore. She hadn't forgotten her dream that she had been dreaming for since she was ten, so that when impressed by the growing excellence of her articles, her editor offered to send her to Italy to cover the beautification of an English patriot, she jumped at the chance and took off running.

That was just the beginning. I spent a lot of time with my Dad; he found a job that allowed him to stay at home with me, the picture perfect job for the high school drop-out who adored books. A book reviewer for a hole in the wall magazine in East London. Some of my earliest memories centre around my Dad reading to me, sitting in the park, or in our front room. Reading new best sellers, and beat classics. My first memory, is sitting on my Dad's lap, I was probably around two as he read from 'the Town and the City' by Jack Kerouac to me. Maybe I don't really remember it, maybe I do. I know I love that book and I always feel comforted reading it, it reminds me of home, it reminds me of good times, and it reminds me of family. I love my Mom and I respect her for what she accomplished, for being faced with such odds and achieving anyway. She travelled the world, and Dad and I stayed home and that was fine, because he took me to preschool, he made me snacks, we watched TV, and read. He tucked me into bed at night and woke me up in the morning and I loved every minute of it and everyday she was there was just a nice bonus. I had souvenirs from all over the world; I had wooden shoes from Holland, a snake in a jar of formaldehyde from Vietnam, sand from Israel, a Fez from Turkey. I had all those things, but I didn't really have a Mom, but I think I was too young to understand that.

I hate to imagine the look of shock on her face, the sinking of her heart, the words muttered under her breath, when she found to her great surprise that she was again pregnant at the age of 22. I'm sure it was a hard choice for her to make, to put her life on hold again, to bring another child into the world. So they ended up sitting at a doctors office, speaking in low tones on what they wanted to do. They had opposite opinions. When the doctor entered the room, and looked at the two twenty somethings sitting in his office, the girl with an unimpressed look on her face, while the boy leaned in the corner his arms crossed on his chest, he kept his mouth shut. In the last four months of her pregnancy, she was not allowed to travel, if I had to list a great time for us, those would be them. My Dad was happy to have her home and she smiled. They took me to the park, and she took me to school, they argued over books in a good way. My sister Lorelai Leigh Mariano was born in October the year I was four. I had personally been hoping for a brother, but as my Dad held me up to the nursery and pointed her out, I was happy to have her, happy to have someone else in our family. Someone who would keep my Mom at home, but it just didn't work out that way. A month after Leigh was born, we dropped my Mom off at the airport and that was that.

Leigh is an interesting kid, where I'm mostly like my Dad, Leigh is a perfect mixture of the two of them, she can be broody and dark and she can be happy and playful. She has the dark eyes that when you look deep into them you wonder about what type of mystery this tiny happy child could possible hold. When she was nine months old, my Dad sitting across the room, called to her: Leigh come here. She cocked her head at him, and said sternly: "Le-Le." and that's what we called her from then on.