The sky over Stars Hollow is grey. Heavy clouds have been drifting slowly overhead all day. It's November and Rory's finally feeling like she has a handle on things. She's on a bench by the Gazebo facing Luke's. In her hands a cup of take away coffee. Almost no one's about, it's getting late, dark. She shivers slightly. It's cold outside but the old building that holds the Gazette has terrible air conditioning. That and the rain that refuses to fall gives her a headache and the fresh air helps.

The work at the Gazette is not the most stimulating, but it does make her feel useful, like she makes a difference, or more accurately; that she's helping preserve something that's needed. It has enabled her to recalibrate her role in this town, and the work on the novel makes up for the rest – her creative needs. She doesn't feel so lost anymore. She's come back home, and that's not necessarily a step back. She's not done deciding what to do with her life from here though which means a certain rootlessness still. She spends her nights at varying places, her mother's, Lane's, even at the newspaper sometimes. At first it felt humiliating, but she's since dropped the feeling. It accomplishes absolutely nothing, to obsess about what other people may or may not think of her when she could focus on what she's actually doing and how she herself feels about it. So her life didn't turn out exactly as she thought; Her mother has dealt with this her entire life and she's awesome. Nothing wrong with walking in her shoes for a bit.

"Hey."

She looks up at Jess who's walking up to her bench. She swallows her startle and smiles.

"Hi."

He smiles back without uttering another word. A familiar silence. It's been there between them like a veil since they let up with the adult small talk and light banter that dominated their conversations up till then, and she knows exactly when that happened:

She'd made the now seemingly fatal mistake of asking him to dance at the wedding. It was innocent enough. She felt so at ease around him, by their pleasant interaction, euphoric by the occasion and the champagne, and she let her guard down. It was an impulse decision and she blames Bowie. Seriously, "Heroes" when people have been drinking? That's just asking for trouble. And apparently the lightness of being with him was dependent on them keeping a physical distance. As soon as he took her hand she noticed, and it only got worse from there. Just the idea that he accepted was something that had to be processed there and then. She'd sort of assumed a rebuff, but alas. Was this something that he did these days? Or was she special? Who had taught him? His other hand on her waist, them moving with the music, their legs partly entwined, all things that made her intensely nervous and inappropriately quiet, serious. Distracted enough to lose her pace, causing him to step straight into her frame, putting their faces a mere inch apart. A whispered apology and an eye lock confirmed that he felt it too. After that she had to close her eyes and hang onto him a little tighter to make it through the dance. It made her dizzy but at least helped her shut her constant inner monologue off. The song's outro was cut off by "Sledgehammer" and they stopped, remained standing. It took her a few more seconds than what was appropriate to catch up with the shift. She'd opened her eyes to his serious face, let go of him abruptly and excused herself.

And since then there's been nothing but soft smiles and silence between them. They've looked at each other and it's been like standing on the verge of... something. She's felt like flinging herself off. And she's been trying to wait it out. He'd leave town, or say something, or do something. But he hasn't. Two weeks have passed and he's still around. Staying at Liz' and helping Luke around the diner.

Her urge to be the one to speak even when he's the one initiating the contact drives her nuts, but she can't help herself.

"I'm glad you caught me. I wanted to show you something."

He sits down next to her and she relishes the warmth from his body even if it makes her heartbeat pick up its pace. She rummages through her bag and pulls out a few prints from old issues of the Gazette, all featuring Lorelai and herself at different town events; The Halloween pageant when they won third price for their double act as The Goofy Gophers (it was all in the characterization).

"Entertaining." Jess says.

"Indubitably." She retorts.

Or the article about some C-lister staying at the Independence Inn and her mother being interviewed and speaking at length about the obviously irrelevant contents of the trash bin in his room. When their booth at the winter carnival pulled in the most money (for the bridge, of course) mainly due too her mother's shameless flirting with… everyone. A number of polls regarding Taylor's issues; Which colors of blinders should be permitted in town, what length of grass should be recommended for private gardens, that kind of stuff, to which mother and daughter had taken turns pulling the leg of whatever unfortunate reporter was on the case.

"Cool." He laughs in his quiet way.

There's a picture from the Dance Marathon where they can be seen out of focus holding each other in the picture's periphery. The caption states the winner and then reads "in the background: the competition's runners up – Lorelai and Rory Gilmore – the latter, broken by the loss." Jess' face darkens as he reads. The text is bitchy, granted, but it's understandable as the unpaid copy at the time was Kirk.

He lights up at a picture of her in a tutu and a temporary cast on her arm from when she tried one of Miss Patty's dance classes and naturally sprained her ankle at the final show.

All the while she's observing his reactions attentively. Her heart flutters at the sight of his expression. He's basically looking at her mothership, and him smiling at it makes her feel accepted. Loved, even. The veil between them seems exceedingly thin right then.

"Why are you here?" She blurts.

He looks up, startled, dropping his smile partly.

"Why d'you ask?"

She huffs impatiently.

"It's just… you've been here for nearly a month, what about your job?"

"It's not really a 9-5 gig."

"Then why aren't you off in Europe or even California or something? Why hang around Connecticut in November?"

"In case you haven't noticed, the only few family members I can actually stand live here. I got plenty of reasons to stay."

She knows she should drop it, but she's never been good at it and this moment is no exception.

"But Thanksgiving and Christmas are right around the corner, wouldn't it be better to stay here then?"

By now he's completely serious.

"Does it bother you to share air with me or something?"

"Don't you have plants?"

"Rory-"

"Is it some kind of nostalgia? I don't know sometimes, the way you look at me makes me think – "

What is she asking? Where is she taking this? She stands abruptly, mostly to interrupt herself, not even waiting for him to speak.

"And why are you incapable of a straight answer? Why are you still here?"

He clenches his jaws, stands, and hands her the prints, then speaks, constrained.

"I always figured I knew you. It's possible that it's not based on any real reasons. I still feel that way though. But maybe you don't know me.

He stares sharply straight at her, eyes dark.

"What I'm feeling isn't nostalgia, you couldn't pay me to go back. It's longing, for you, right here. Now."

The anger vanishes from his face before her eyes. Instead he looks helpless.

"And if you don't know that, then I guess I really don't know what I'm doing here either."

She stares back at him, muted. Inside her head she screams at herself. Why is she never prepared? Her mother can be ready for a fight within fractured seconds, while she herself is like a little yapping dog, big talk until push comes to shove. She tries and fails to produce a response, just stands there mouth agape.

He starts to slowly back away as the sky finally opens up and the first cold drops fall. She wants to stop him, wants him to stay and talk to her, but remains hopelessly silent. He turns his back and walks back toward Luke's, picking up the pace and running the last distance, entering the diner and passing his uncle to reach the back directly. She watches him all the way, ignoring the rain. A moment later the lights in the apartment go on, but she can't see inside since the blinds are closed. She looks back down and finds Luke staring quizzically at her. She returns the look before she walks away. As she turns her back to the diner to get home she registers the rain and starts running. His words still keep up with her though. Is he here because of her, his reality dependent on hers? Wasn't that the answer she wanted at some level? Yet here they are, running away from one another again. What is wrong with them? They've been flung back into a pattern of the undeniable but barely spoken. It's comfortable in a way. But enough is enough. He's right. She has to know.

•

She unlocks the door of her old home, rushes into her old room, digging out old cartons from the closet, staining them with cold water from the outside pour. There's evidence buried here. Digs through her Chilton box. Nothing. Goes on to the one labeled "Yale" with no success. Finally the box she packed just a few years ago, while cleaning out her desk so that her mom could use that space. The objects she's looking for are the first things she finds in there. Her old copy of Howl, The Subsect, an invite to Truncheon, and a scrapbook.

She picks up Howl first and thumbs the pages, the book's back is broken in the places where his notes are. Back when she was in love with him, both before and after they got together, she'd trace the letters with her fingers and read them over and over again. They soon lost all meaning and became a touchstone, an object to remind her that she was not alone, and when she couldn't understand him, she'd do the same to remember that there was a connection. This had gone on for years after they got separated too. Just the thought that it had occurred was soothing to her. It had also meant that this copy of the book had been tied in with him and that feeling. She'd had to get a new copy to be able to enjoy it without those associations.

The Subsect is pristine. She's read it a few times but has been utterly careful with her copy. She's bought several other copies through the years and distributed them among her friends for their birthdays, always warmly recommended it for its content, but also straining to not blurt out "the author is a friend of mine", scared to open the floodgates.

Her keeping the books could be glossed over by the fact that she never could get rid of any. The invite to Truncheon though, that's harder for her to explain. Especially because of what happened. She's been ready to throw out the card several times. She's sat with it in hand staring at his name, and the short message, hand written on the other side; "please come."

She's unavoidably thought of that evening, the embarrassment over it all making her wince. Her intentions. Revenge. And the reason she chose to go there, of all places. To her friend. Someone who meant something to her. When she might have just as easily hooked up with a classmate or even someone from the brigade. How she'd lost herself in their moment, him. And their kiss. How she'd been reminded why she'd come there and why she couldn't go through with it. Not just because she loved Logan, but because she loved him too. The realization of the damage she'd already done. His pain. That's usually when she'd made an attempt to throw out the piece of paper, but couldn't. Because under her shame she felt warm at the memory. Happy and sad. It seemed too significant. So she'd just put it away.

The scrapbook is filled with pictures and mementoes from her high school years. There is nothing from Yale or her friends and boyfriends since – she switched to digital. Browsing through the pages, there are photo booth pictures with Lane, concert and movie tickets, receipts from the Harvard University gift shop. There are photos of her and her mother from various occasions, town events as well as everyday life. There is a series of photographs depicting her and Paris in Washington. There are pictures and pictures of her and Dean in formal wear, ready to attend whichever of her functions he was required to accompany her to. And there, nearing the end of the book, next to her last (or first, depending on point of view) reminder of Dean - the bracelet he gave her, neatly taped close to the back of the book - are the only two photos she has of Jess and her.

They're snapped by Lane, shallow focus, grainy, black and white. Not pasted into the book, like the others, just loosely tucked in between the pages.

One is of her in the foreground, being pulled by the hand held in his. This was such a frequent occurrence that she can't place the memory. She's happy, caught in a laugh. His back is determined, trying to get the two of them to someplace private, where he could be different. Hers. The other is from Luke's and she's engrossed in her books, most likely studying. He's in focus in this picture but likely unaware, face unguarded, watching her with a vague smile, expression soft.

It's funny. Even now, just looking at the pictures accelerates her heartbeat. The tightness travels up her throat and down her chest. This is the part when she looks away. Always did look away, even at the real him. She could never stand to face him for long. Too bright.

Except now she doesn't. It's just a picture after all and he can't see her eyes fill up with tears, or her face go naked when the memory of all that he did to her, all she did to him floods back. The connection that she'd felt for the first time with him.

Despite the motion of the first, and the blink-and-you'd-miss-it-nature of the second, the images are peaceful, all about the two of them and the moment they're in. The rest of the book is empty.

His expression in the pictures. It's the same he had when looking at the prints earlier. When they danced at the wedding. When he talks to her. He still loves her. She knows it. And she?

The reminders were the last to be packed. And that means something.

•

She doesn't think. Just reacts. Grabs the photos and tucks them into her inner coat pocket. Gets up and runs out the room, out the house. Back towards the square, and diner. Her brain tries to plan ahead while she's running but can't keep up with her feet, all she gets are freely floating words, fragments of sentences. She's out of breath when she arrives, the doorbell chimes as she bursts in. Her mother is at the corner table with a cup of coffee, most likely waiting for Luke to close up. Aside from this the diner's empty. Luke looks up from the counter with the same expression he had when she left. Lorelai opens her mouth and is obviously about to comment on her sad state. She interrupts her mother before she can get a word out.

"Is Jess here?"

Luke starts.

"Yeah, but Rory-"

He's interrupted by Jess stepping out from behind the curtain. He stops in his tracks as he sees her, bottom lip dropping slightly. She quickly walks up to and passes him, in behind the curtain. He turns, and follows her. She faces him and opens her mouth to speak, and that's the moment her head picks to start functioning again. She's in the murky staircase hall no bigger than a closet. Stairs to her right, a number of sloppily stacked empty crates to her left, storage behind her. And nothing more than a curtain between this space holding all potential of the moment, and the diner, holding her mother and Luke who are likely listening for what's about to unfold. She can't speak her mind here, no matter what's on it. It smells of grease, coffee and the wet wool of her coat. The photos in her inner pocket are burning a hole in her chest. She reaches for them but the small space hinders the motion. She's made aware that he's inches away and she looks to his face. Brows furrowed, searching her, anticipating her next move. She looks into his eyes and it's like looking at the sun. She tries to look away, to pull out the photos, to form words, failing miserably.

"Rory-" He starts, tone apologetic. A shiver runs through her at him speaking her name like that and she leans into him, pressing her lips lightly to his. He freezes before sharply pulling back to stare at her. It's her turn to look helpless. At least that's what she feels. He looks confused for a fraction of a second. Eyes darting between hers, then widening and heating. He steps into her frame, deliberately this time, pressing her back to the doorway behind her and kissing her deeply. He grasps her neck under the fall of her hair and his other arm sneaks in beneath her damp coat to hold her waist. As her knees go weak she pulls herself tighter to him which makes them lean heavier on the batten.

A crate wobbles at this and falls with a crack. He pulls back his face. She keeps her eyes closed and lips pursed to naively preserve the moment. She feels his breath on her face and chest rise and fall against her. Silence. When she opens her eyes she's instantly caught in his gaze. It's locked at her in what she can only read as wonder. She gulps and manages a dazed smile. He returns it, and she almost have to blink away tears because of it. He tilts his head toward the apartment with raised eyebrows. She nods and they start tumbling upstairs.

In the diner Luke and Lorelai exchange looks at the loudly resounding silence, followed by a crack and creaking steps from the staircase. He refills her coffee and she smiles at him.