Title: Post Script (Chapter Titles from the song "Post Script" by Finch)

Disclaimer: I own zip zero nadda

Summary: Literati. She's forgotten everything; he's the only one who can make her remember.

I wish it didn't hurt, hurt like this

His job is careful and concise. Who would have thought stacking books onto shelves, was such a thoughtful job? First they must be stacked in accordance to genre. Then of course there is author, and then title, to consider, alphabetically. He reaches down into the cardboard box once again to find another book to stack and finds a Hemingway. He grins at it, first because he's read it and wants to shout "Read this! Read this!" but knows that the older lady next to him might keel over from shock. Then he stacks it quietly next to the other untouched copies. The lady looks at him quickly, trying to make it look like she's not. He knows better. He walks up to her, boldly of course, because with any woman over 40, he's learned, you have to be careful.

"Anything I can help you with ma'am?" he asks. He has a goofy grin on his face and anyone who knows him well enough would want to smack him silly after seeing it. He says it like he actually cares, but he doesn't because the truth of the matter is that he knows he's being watched, closely and rather seductively by his boss. Margaret is a 48 year old overweight, wannabe political satire writer, husbandless and kid less to a fault. He usually notices her watching him, sometimes though her eyes seem to travel a little lower than he'd like. Today however her eyes are forcefully glued to him. He came in late today, overslept and all that, but had made terrible excuses, to the fact that he got the "Hey honey, do I look like I was born yesterday?" speech.

The lady takes a strong look at him, now that she's actually allowed to look at him, and concentrates in on him.

"Well," she says, quite seductively. "I need a book."

It takes every bone in his body not to start laughing his ass off right there in front of her, but he only bites his bottom lip to hold it back. Obviously he thinks to himself, while she starts giving him suggestive glances.

"Well ma'am…"

"- Natasha Livingston," she interjects quickly.

At this point he wants to say I really don't give a damn who you are, and no, I'm not sleeping with you tonight. The only reason I'm actually pulling these words out of my ass is so that when I wake up tomorrow I have a job to go to. But he doesn't of course because if he actually speaks these words they will be to the contrary.

"Right, well Mrs. Livingston –"

She stops him again, this time with her hand against his chest.

"Please," she whispers gently. "Call me - Natasha."

At this he looks up to see if Margaret is anywhere near them, and he finds that she isn't. He cusses violently under his breath, so much that she nearly pulls away from him, he wishes she would. He takes her hand and removes it from his chest.

"Right, so ma'am I would suggest a Hemingway, if you're really interested. O what's that?" he asks putting his hand to his ear trying to hear an imaginary voice. "If you'll excuse me I believe I have another customer."

'Sick bitch,' he thinks to himself. He walks away, leaving the fragile woman, rather in awe of him, while slightly hurt. His feet bring him back to the front of the bookshop. It's a quaint store. Nothing too fancy, entirely. But it works well for him because he doesn't like commotion and he hates when people stray too long. He likes working where no one can see him and no one can talk to him. He wishes there were more of that around here.

The clanking of the bell overhead catches his attention, signaling the arrival of a new customer or asshole, whichever way you look at it. The woman is slim, almost lanky, tall with an authoritative walk. Her clothing, immediately grabs his attention, not particularly because he finds it appealing, but that it's out of place. She wears a black blazer and dress pants, nothing that fits in around these parts, and she has a cell phone, pager, ipod and pda. Her gaze filters around the room, taking in every part of the store. Her eyes come into contact with his and suddenly he looks away, because really that's what he's always done. She takes two steps over to face him, standing tall, while he hunches over the counter, waiting for her to speak.

"Hello. I'm looking for a Mr. Jess Mariano."

He tries not to draw suspicion to himself and tries to think of anything illegal he's done in the past month, but can't quite draw an appropriate act of vandalism to mind.

"He's not here," he tells her.

Her suave smirk turns into a faulty smile and all at once he becomes extremely suspicious.

"Hello Jess, I'm agent Kristin West from the West Private Investigators. I was hoping I could ask you a couple of question."

"About what?"

"I, uh, think we need to speak in private," she tells him quietly.

"Look lady this is a bookstore, there is no private. So I suggest you just tell me what it is right now or leave."

Her smile doesn't change for one minute as she pulls out a folder from her briefcase.

"He told me you were quite a firecracker, I thought he was exaggerating. Obviously not. Here's a folder, why don't you take a look at it. When you're ready, my number is in there."

She leaves the folder on the counter, and walks off. He watches her leave and hears the bell on the door signal her departure. At first he just looks at the manila folder and lets it lie there. Curiosity never did anyone any good he reminds himself. But he lets it sit there, and at first he fights with himself, thinking it's something from his past and he knows that if it is from his past nothing good can come from it.

Finally Margaret comes into view. She walks up to him carefully and eyes him again. This time directly in the eye and he knows, full on, that he's in trouble.

"Jesus Christ Mariano, didn't your mother ever teach you any manners?" she asks him.

He wonders whether or not she's joking but he sees no sparkle in her eye and resumes his seriousness.

"No," he answers, quite honestly.

"You scared the shit out of that Livingston woman. She complained so damn much about it, told me she was going to have her husband buy me out and burn down this damn bookstore. Do you want a roof over your head?"

"Yes," he answers honestly again.

"Don't get smart. It doesn't suit you. Don't act up again, or I will fire you, with no regrets, at all."

She looks down on the counter and sees the folder.

"What the hell is this?"

He just shrugs. "Some lady came in and gave it to me."

"Well get it off here, and while you're at it, get yourself out of here, I'm sick of seeing you today. Come by and open tomorrow."

He doesn't say anything, not wanting to disrupt her thoughts of hate for him. He merely jumps at the opportunity to leave, grabbing only his jacket and at the last minute – the folder.

There's nothing good on TV, nothing other than the news. But a person shooting others has never really been on the top of his must-see list. He sinks into his, already sunken, sofa and sits, beer in hand. On his crummy kitchen table lays the folder. He swigs back some of his drink and finally walks over to the table. He seats himself in front of it and sits there, placing his beer down next to him. Temptation seeps into his skin and his mind wanders for a few moments at what it could possibly be about. Finally his conscience gets the worst of him and he opens the folder. The first thing he sees is a picture. It's gorier than he expected. He leans into it closely to examine it. The picture looks like it came right out of the Shining itself. A huge gash into the skull of someone. He leafs through the various other documents. But he stops as his eyes hit one line of text and suddenly his whole body goes numb.

Accident/Victim/Patient Name: Lorelai Leigh Gilmore

Diagnosis: Amnesia

He finds it suddenly very hard to swallow. The pit of his stomach has found its way quickly into his chest. He leans back in his chair, for a moment. Memories wash over him, at first subtle subtitles in his life. He remembers watching her from afar with Dean. Then the night she had called him "Dodger". The car crash. The kiss at the wedding. Him leaving her, unknowingly on the bus. Him asking her to come away with him. And finally her saying no. The last one catches up with him quickly. So many times he's tried to forget. Hell, he's wanted to try to forget about her for as long as he could remember, but he's never quite been able to do it. Finally he snaps out of his haze and returns to the folder. He leafs through the various documents. Serious fracture to the skull…Car crash…No injuries sustained to driver…Amnesia… Somewhere in the middle of these he forgets to breath. He finally sustains normal breathing patterns and flips to the last page. Attached to the doctor's form is a picture. She looks up at him with angelic eyes (oh god, does he ever remember those eyes!). Her hair is slightly longer than he remembers it being. She's not smiling; it's more of a smirk. As if she knows something you don't. He smiles at this, because that's how he's always remembered her. She always knew something he didn't. Always.

He finds within the package a note from the agent.

Interested in helping? Call 555-9876

Kristin West

At first he wants to throw the whole folder out and forget everything about it and her. But he thinks that deep down, he wants to know. God damn it, he is interested. He wants to know what the hell it has to do with him. He picks up his telephone and dials her number, but on instinct slams the phone back down. Finally he takes the phone in his hand and dials the number again, but it takes all his strength not to slam it right down.

"West Private Investigators. How may I direct your call?"

"Kristin West."

"Right away, Sir"

The line clicks over and he suddenly feels the intense urge to hang up –

"Hello."

Too late.

"Kristin?"

"Yes?"

"This is Jess Mariano."

The voice on the other line does a 180 degree turn and immediately perks up.

"Oh good. I'm glad you called. Did you read through the folder?"

"Yea," he says.

"What did you think?" she asks him.

"I want to know what the hell it has to do with me," he says getting impatient with her and already regretting his decision to call. But he can almost hear her still smiling on the other end of the phone.

"Jess I'm going to have to ask you a couple of questions. You once knew Ms. Gilmore? Correct?"

His shoulders start to sag and suddenly he feels like a little boy.

"What is this about?" he asks regaining his confidence.

She sighs loudly into the phone and answers him. "I thought it all was explained to you in the folder. I'm going to have to have you come down to the hospital, tomorrow morning, to answer a few questions."

"I have to work tomorrow morning," he tells her quite gruffly.

"What time do you get off?" she asks him, trying again.

He thinks for a moment, unsure of his exact hours, considering that Margaret never told him exactly. But she interrupts his thoughts.

"Tomorrow night at 6. The directions to the hospital are inside the folder. Good bye Mr. Mariano."

She hangs up on him leaving him quite stunned.