Author's Note: This is my first fanfiction for Gilmore Girls, so I apologize if the characters are a little off. It might take me some time to get used to them. This story is a work in progress, so I'll try to update often . . . but it may vary.

Rating: PG-13, but sometimes language gets kind of strong and their are suggestive (not explict) themes.

Disclaimer: I don't own anything!

Oh, and before it starts, there's some changes in the timing of the whole story. Okay, Rory and Logan have just started exclusively dating, Jess has already opened his publishing house (which Rory doesn't know about), and the Dragonfly Inn is up and running, but Lorelai and Luke aren't together (yet). That about covers it.

By the way, I think Jess and Rory have a dynamic relationship. They're perfect for each other, even their faults are complementary. It's hard to imagine either of them with anyone else. Tristian, Dean, and Logan don't do much for me.

Alright, let's get on with it!

- - - - - - - - -

Damn my stubborn pride.

He sits near her, watching her tears fall, watching each one shatter into the hardwood like broken glass, feeling each one stab a blade deeper into his heart. She can feel him watching her, and he knows this, but he does not make a move to touch her or comfort her. He sits on the other side of the room, wanting desperately to go to her. She can't tell, for when she glances up at him his face is impassive. He might as well be carved from granite. Maybe he is.

Damn my stubborn pride . . .

It's the one phrase that keeps circling in his head, swooping down into the folds of his brain until its all he can think about. He would give her the world if he could, but right now he seems incapable of even moving an iota in her direction. The fight started off stupid, dumb, rehashing the same old things they always rehashed and pointless in its monotony. Soon his mouth got the better of him, though, and he had lashed a whip into her soul without meaning to. He doesn't know how to apologize for it.

She makes no noise, and maybe that is what hurts worst. He remembers when she used to yell at him, push him, storm away from him, but now it seems like she can't resist anymore. He watches the one girl in the world he cares about wither under his horrible gaze that he can't seem to soften, and she buries her face in her hands to escape it. It's his eyes that she can't stand; their intensity bores into her in a way that tells her that he either loves her or hates her, and she can't decide which.

There are several moments of silence, each one painful and hard to bear. She shakes underneath her scarlet dress that she's wrapped in, lonely and cold. That's when he feels a sensation returning to his legs, like it always eventually does, and he manages to stand up. He wishes very much that he had been able to do this earlier, before these minutes of emptiness, but he will try to repair what he can.

He whispers her name quietly, and she hears him, but she doesn't look at him. His face is always too much for her to resist. Right now, she doesn't think she can handle him pulling her in again, as he undoubtedly will in a few seconds. There is a fatal attraction between them, a magnetism that neither of them can escape even if they want to, a force that will keep them always searching for each other, and they know it.

This time he calls her more desperately, and she feels his broad hands on her neck, turning her head so she's forced to stare right into his beautiful brown eyes. She tries to hold on to what he said to her, the spiteful words he lacerated her with, but they are gone as soon as he looks at her like that. She forgets the things she said back, and the tears that still stain her cheeks. When his lips tentatively brush hers, she understands that he is asking her a question, asking for her forgiveness because he can't do it with words, and she answers it by wrapping her arms around him and kissing him back, all the while inhaling his slightly soapy and ashy scent. Soon, their fight is gone, swirling out the open window like smoke, and even though they both know it will be back again to haunt them, they pretend they don't.

He hears voices in the next room, quiet and restrained, almost as if their owners are afraid to be heard. He wonders what her grandparents think they are doing, and as crazy as it seems, he almost smiles at the thought of them puzzling over the sudden change that will occur between their granddaughter and her boyfriend from the time they entered the study to when they will have left. He catches a word or two spoken by her mother, and he knows they are talking about him, but all of the sudden he feels small hands traveling delicately up the inside of his shirt and he's caught in a vortex, trapped in a tiny world no more than two square feet wide that's composed of only two people.

In her innocence, she has no idea how crazy she's driving him, and that's part of her allure. He feels her tracing his back muscles with her fingertips, grasping at his biceps, outlining the hard cut of his abdomen. All the while his head is pounding and his heart is rumbling in his chest as his nostrils flare, breathing in what she smells like: something soft, rain maybe, and flowers. This is too much for him to bear, so he kisses her with such breathless power that her hands fall lifeless to the sofa beneath them and she's left dazed. They break apart for a second; he studies her gently and pulls on the tips of her chestnut hair. It's times like these that explain to her why she lets him do what he does. She would die if he wasn't here with her, and she's willing to pay whatever price she has to in order for him to stay.

He presses his forehead against hers and softly touches his finger to her burning lips. There is a beat where they simply revel in each other's warmth and nearness, but soon she becomes hungry again with a hunger that she's never experienced before and her kisses become ardent and flaming. She brings his palm to her hip and then to her neck, not satisfied with any of its positions until he begins to slide it up her leg. Then she comes so close to him that there is absolutely no space in between their bodies save for their clothes; they are pressed hard to each other so that neither of them has room to breathe, and neither of them want it.

The room they are in smells like books. He knows it is her grandfather's study. There's something exhilarating about being in her grandfather's study as, for the first time, he begins to touch the hidden body he's thought about for so long. She begins to shake, but the shaking does not quench her passion. He's surprised by how thirsty for him she seems, and how she is not afraid by his own want, even though she has no idea what she's doing. No other girl has ever had quite this effect on him, as cliché as it sounds, and he is suddenly afraid to break her.

She deserves better than this. She deserves candlelight and poetry, rose petals and scented oil. He knows this. He knows this because he has been thinking about it for months, maybe even longer than that. He tries to wave off this nagging feeling as she begins to tug at the waistband of his jeans, but he can't. He cares about her too much.

When he takes her hands off of his pants and lays them gently in her lap before pulling away, the confusion she looks at him with hurts him almost as much as her tears did. He recognizes the fear in her eyes, almost like she thinks that he doesn't want her, and he kisses her one more time to dispel any of her doubts on this issue. When she still looks guilty, like she has done something wrong to drive him away, he begins to stroke her glossy hair. "Not here," is all he can think of to say. "Not like this."

She understands now, and he can tell that by the way the gloom disperses from her face to be replaced by a flaring blush, complemented by a shimmering look of anticipation and want in her expression. "Soon," she whispers in a way that sends shivers through his whole bloodstream and makes the hairs on his arms stand on end.

"Soon," he answers, and he kisses her again, gently this time, like someone sealing a promise too precious to put to paper. She is the most beautiful thing he's ever seen as she sits next to him, her hair piled on her shoulders, her face soft, even her delicate ears are gorgeous. He can't remember ever wanting someone this much, but what startles him most is that he wants her to want him, too; he wants her to want exactly what he wants. He's never cared about that before. He wants her not just in body, but in spirit and soul and heart. He wants her not just today, or tomorrow, but forever.

He can't tell her these things, of course. He probably never will. He looks at her and hopes that she sees it in his eyes, and by the smile that curves her fantastic lips he thinks that maybe she does. They both know that people are waiting for them in the next room, but neither of them want to lose the intimate moment they've been entrusted with. She leans against him and wraps her arms around him, tempting him to do what he swore he wouldn't, at least not here, but when he takes a deep breath the temptation is gone and nothing but the most brilliant ecstasy is left in its place.

There's a long silence that's almost sacred; neither of them know how long they lay there. Her fingertips pull on the collar of his dusty green shirt and trace circles on his chest, while his idly wander across her back and tangle in her hair. She begins to laugh without a sound, but he can feel her smile against his skin. He tilts her chin up so that her face meets his.

"What?" He asks, and the sparkle in her eyes brings an involuntary grin to his lips. Times such as these, when he's so tender and the scowl on his face melts away, absolutely break her heart. She reaches out to trace his mouth and he kisses her finger.

"I was just thinking, when we do it . . . for real . . . it has to be in a room full of books," she giggles, still hardly above a whisper.

He leans back against a bookcase, feeling volumes of novels, all of which he has probably read, sticking into his back, and chuckles. "Huh," he says lightly, digesting what she was saying. "Well, it depends on how quiet we can be. You know they don't like too much noise in a library."

This time she's laughing so hard that she can't breathe, laughing about nothing in particular, just laughing with the pure joy of being so close to him. He puts his hand over her mouth to stifle her, but suddenly gets a better idea and covers it instead with his own.

It's hard to make himself stop this time when she begins to pull him against her again. Somehow, he untangles himself from her and stands up to walk over to the other side of the room. "I think," he mutters, stuffing his hands in his pockets, "we're only safe from each other if Walt is between us." He looks pointedly at a copy of Leaves of Grass that lies on the desk that separates them.

She looks at him lovingly and he has to turn away so that he doesn't say something when his emotions get the better of him. Clearing his throat awkwardly, he says, "Let's go," and swiftly crosses the space between them to yank her up off the couch. She kisses him again, standing up but relying entirely on him for support, and he brushes his lips against her neck.

"God," he says, not eloquently but sincerely, "What are you doing to me?"

"If I knew, I'd tell you," she replies seriously, and then takes his hand and presses it before letting go and standing near the exit. In moments like this one he can't imagine he'd ever be able to make her cry, but he knows the truth all too well. With a sad shake of his head, more to himself than to her, he opens the door and ushers her out before shutting it behind him and prepping himself to face the questioning glances of her family.

When he does turn toward them, he knows they've been badmouthing him since the second he left. Her grandfather's face is hard and unforgiving, but he is proud to see it is also tinged with a drop of fear. Her grandmother is pulling nervously on the fabric of her upholstered chair, looking at him every once and awhile with something halfway between mortal disdain and utter loathing. Her mother still wants to throw darts at his head. Half of him aches to run out the door and jump in his car, but then he finds her in the corner she has walked to, and her eyes hold such a different emotion than that of the others that he forces himself to stay.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Jess never used alarm clocks. He hated how incessant their blaring is. They had the capability to ruin his whole day in three seconds. Instead, something else would wake him up, something like water being turned on in the bathroom next door or sunlight streaming through his pathetic excuse for blinds. This morning, though, he sat bolt upright in bed at six A.M., his eyes burning as if they had been open for hours without him knowing it.

Damn those dreams. They were memories that came alive again, blazing through his brain at a time when he couldn't defend himself against them. Every time he shook himself out of one, he always found himself empty and lonely for hours. Maybe he was always lonely, and they just made it sharper. He doesn't know.

He felt like he hadn't slept at all. Exhausted, he leaned back into his pillow and closed his eyes, but it was no use. He saw her face as though it had been stamped on the inside of his eyelids. He had to smile a little when he thought of what she'd say about that.

All the time . . . he thought of Rory all the time. Mostly, it was just a dull ache in the back of his throat, a backdrop that he built his life around, but sometimes it took front and center stage, demanding that he fall down and revere this ghost of his past. It hurt him immensely, all of these whys and what ifs that he harbors inside of him. It was his fault that things hadn't worked out; he knew that. She'd been so willing, so eager, to make it right with him, and he'd up and left without giving half a second's notice. He should have gone back to her . . . but surely, surely she'd known he couldn't've?

Groping on his nightstand, he tried to find a book – any book would do – that would take his mind somewhere else. He glanced at the title on a paperback he picked up. Cry of the Beloved Country. He had read it a million times, made a thousand notes in the margins, and now he went through it again. There was no other escape for him, but unfortunately this only escape also tied him irrevocably to her through the books.

He had moved to Philadelphia without a clear plan. That was basically how he'd lived his whole life: without a clear plan. The fact that he was now the owner of a publishing house and that he had written a book didn't affect his life much. It was good, he knew, but he was still hopelessly cynical and so buried in literature and memories that this goodness didn't change him. He had grown a little, shaped up his attitude, and learned to regret a lot. He still listened to garage bands and read obscure books, still dressed in t-shirts, jeans, and denim jackets, still smoked, and still had a mouth that raised eyebrows. The one thing that was different, though, was the innermost workings of his being. He had been hurt, too, not just hurt others, and it made him more sensitive to his fellow man.

Sometimes he wondered what he would do if she gave him a second chance. If, somehow, a divine wind blew her to his doorstep and he was given the opportunity to make it work again, what would he say? He didn't have an excuse. The reason he had left was suffocating and pressing, but so wispy and intangible that he couldn't describe it with words. He wondered how different she looked, or if she looked different at all than the last time he'd seen her. The one thing he knew had to be the same was her eyes, pale blue like moonlight and the sky mixed together.

Frustrated, he threw Cry of the Beloved Country against the wall. Some help it was doing him.

Because he knew he wouldn't be able to fall back to sleep, he got up and took a shower, hoping ice cold water would make him think of something else. Eventually, the acuteness of his pain faded away back into that dull ache. He got dressed and went downstairs, ready for another day of work, ready for another day of pretending that nothing could touch him.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Rory, giggling, yanked her hand out of Logan's grasp as he began to rub his thumb against her palm. Ever since he had found out that her palms were ticklish (a weird "freak of nature" dilemma, he called it), he had been doing it all the time. Acting frustrated but not really altogether displeased, she slapped his shoulder with her menu across the table and then hid her smile by looking down into her drink.

The restaurant was nice. Soft music echoed in the background from a live piano player with long coattails. A huge chandelier sparkled over them, throwing prisms of rainbow light on the salmon-colored walls. A soft carpet, pink like smashed rose petals, embraced her feet in their uncomfortable shoes.

As wonderful as it all was, Rory couldn't help but feel slightly awkward. Logan didn't know everything about her yet. She would have much preferred a huge, greasy burger and a million French fries to the rack of lamb, filet mignon, and cold shrimp that were served here. It had been terribly kind of him to bring her here, though, so she did her best to relax.

"Hey, Ace," he murmured across the table, using his nickname for her that had become so typical to her ear that she didn't even notice it anymore. "You haven't said a word yet. Everything okay?"
Ever since she and Logan had begun to date steadily, Rory's mouth slowed down. The conversation that had been, if not easy, at least doable between them before seemed to have come to a halt. She was always afraid to say the wrong thing or act the wrong way. He didn't berate her or talk down to her, but a not entirely friendly mocking look would glimmer in his blue eyes and she would blush furiously with painful embarrassment. She tried to talk about books she liked or music she listened to, but in these subjects they had nothing in common. He knew no movies or politicians. He liked to talk about his friends and sports and yachts and business, things she had little to no experience with.

Regardless, it was impossible not to notice the chemistry that flitted between them from the second they had met. He was impossibly arrogant; she was impossibly demure. He saw her as a conquest to be made; the only girl in miles who had not wanted him the moment she saw him. Eventually, he won and she went out with him. She knew it surprised him that she did not fall flat on her face to obey his every command, and this intrigue was part of what kept him around for so long. In the same way, she was surprised that she was attracted to him, regardless of her negative first impression, even though she tried not to show it too much.

"Everything's perfect," she answered, thinking it was so little of a lie that no one would notice. She could get used to this: waiters hanging on her every word, an impossibly handsome boy sitting across from her, candlelight on the table. She could get used to this. She could.

"So I finally read a book you might like," he said awkwardly, as if trying to make some sort of conversation. She looked up with interest. Yale's library was enormous and beautiful, something she felt compelled to make the most of. Logan rarely did.

Seeing she was not going to press him, Logan waited for a refill of his water before clearing his throat and continuing. "It's an Ernest Hemingway. Do you like him? He seems like your type of guy." He chuckled at the end of his joke, expecting her to laugh, too, and he was proud that he had made a stab at talking of her interests.

Rory's blood ran cold. She bit her lip, either to keep herself from yelling or to keep herself from crying. The music suddenly seemed annoying to her and the restaurant was stifling. She wasn't hungry anymore. "No," she said quietly, pushing her iced tea away from her.

He looked at her, surprised, and raised an eyebrow. "No? You don't like Ernest Hemingway? I'm sure he'd like you." He flashed an award-winning smile.

She hated it when these things happened. He likes you . . . She could still here that voice saying it, a voice more husky than Logan's, a voice full of sarcasm and cajoling. She pressed her eyes closed and shook her head, willing herself not to see a finely chiseled face and waving dark hair, but especially hoping that she wouldn't remember his piercing brown eyes.

"I don't want to talk about it anymore," she replied, pushing a leaf of lettuce around her salad plate with her fork. She tried to focus on Logan, on his hundreds of charms and the flaws that merely added to his perfection, but she couldn't. She was suddenly sitting on a bridge, staring out into black water, feeling his presence by her, wanting so desperately to touch him, but too afraid to.

"Did good ol' Ernest do something to offend you?" Logan bit into a roll and chewed and swallowed like he didn't have a care in the world. She glanced up at him, at his perfectly styled blonde hair and his collared dress shirt and sweater, and she suddenly felt sick.

"I'm sorry, I have to go," she whispered, wishing with her whole heart that this didn't happen to her anymore, trying to make herself believe that she had moved on. It was no use. In her mind's eye, she saw snow blanketing a town square. She was being walked backward and pinned against the gazebo. She felt his lips assaulting hers.

In her haste, she stood up and knocked over her drink on the table. Her eyes flashed. Logan reached out to hold her back, stumbling over himself with confused apologies, but she was gone. "Ace!" She heard behind her, and the fact that she didn't care sent tears coursing down her cheeks.

As she walked down the quiet New Haven streets, she took out her cell phone from her purse and stared at it. There, in her address book, was the number to Luke's. It danced before her, taunting her, teasing her. Her anger at him, at how he had thrown her life off course, was nothing compared to the burning in her heart that told her how much she missed him.

When was the last time she had talked to someone like him? When had she sat down and had a conversation about Dead Souls, or Bjork, or anything that resembled something that mattered to her? She couldn't remember. All she could think of was the countless afternoons they had spent upstairs in Luke's apartment, her head on his chest and his hand on the back of her neck, as he had read to her from dozens of books and she had laughed at the rise and fall of his skin as he breathed.

There were times when she didn't think about him for weeks, when he faded into background noise for her. She wouldn't have been able to survive otherwise. When he had shown up again half a year ago, she completely blocked out their reunion in her head. She remembered it now, and began to cry harder.

Fingers shaking, she punched the "Send" button. The phone rang for what seemed like an eternity. She checked her delicate chain watch. Ten o'clock. Luke was usually in bed by now. Mortified, she groped for the button to hang up. It was too late.

"Hello?" A rough, groggy voice greeted her on the other end of the line. For a moment, she thought about pretending to be a telemarketer, but knew that would be even worse.

"Hey, Luke, it's Rory. Sorry I woke you up."

She heard the sound of sheets rustling as, she assumed, Luke sat up in a more comfortable position. There was a loud exhaling, and then, "You didn't wake me up."

Laughing, and then doubling over because it hurt to laugh after she had been crying, she said, "You've always been a bad liar."

A pause. "Yeah, well."

He didn't hurry her or ask what she wanted. He seemed to sense that she was acutely uncomfortable, and she was grateful for the silence. She still didn't know she was going to say it until the words came out of her mouth and into his ear. "Um, Luke?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you . . . do you have a number I could reach Jess at?"

She regretted it instantly. What are you thinking? He had left her, didn't she remember that? Didn't she remember how heartbroken she had been, still was? Didn't she remember that she had wanted to lock away the precious moments inside of her, forget the bad, and never speak to him again?

Ah, but that was a lie. She knew what it felt like to lie to herself.

He was surprised. She could tell. He didn't say anything for a moment. Then, entirely awake now, he answered, "Hold on." There was a banging noise, some swearing, and the flipping of pages. "Here it is."

He waited, as if wanting her to reassure him that she really wanted it. He knew the history, and he knew how much pain Rory had to be in to be willing to put herself through this, so he wanted to make sure.

"Okay, I have a pen." She didn't, really. She knew herself well enough to know that it would be memorized the moment she heard it.

He gave the number to her gruffly, but tenderly in a fatherly way, as if he felt like he was unfairly punishing her. She was right; each digit was eternally fastened to her memory. The feeling that spread through her was indescribable. She finally had something tangible to connect with her past, and she didn't like it.

"Thanks," she said quietly.

"No problem." He was silent for a moment, giving her a chance to tell him what was going on if she wanted to. She didn't. "Okay, if that's all, I'm going to go back to the sleep you didn't wake me up from."

She laughed again. She couldn't help it. "Okay."

"Okay. Goodnight." Another beat of waiting, and then he hung up. She didn't do the same until the dial tone screamed in her ear. Then she returned her phone to her purse and hailed a cab as tears started to fall again.

- - - - - - - - - -

Thanks for taking the time to read it.