A/N: Hello everyone, here I am (again) writing a Rory-dying story. My attempt at a meaningful story. . . hahaha. This is my foray into present-tense style writing - something I was never really into, but the artsy feel has actually grown on me. This story is my reworking of the amazing story by Black Snow, Two If By Sea, done so that Rory's husband (an OC in the original) is Logan.

Disclaimer: The characters belonging to the show Gilmore Girls are owned by Amy Sherman-Palladino, and are reproduced here for mere enjoyment and not profit. This story is based off another fanfic, Two If By Sea by Black Snow.

"Jess?"

He knows the voice instantly, even if he's shocked to hear her calling him after all this time. Even if it's completely out of the blue, and even if he hasn't thought of her for years. At least not consciously.

"Yeah?"

"Jess, I – uh – do you think that maybe, um, you could come and see me?" she says, and he notices that her voice sounds meek and small. He doesn't like it, but something in his gut tells him to obey. He knows she would never ask – like this – if it weren't important.

"Okay," he tells her, "I could drive down tomorrow morning –"

"I'm not in Stars Hollow," she interrupts him. "I'm in California. I know it's really far, so if you don't want to come it's okay."

"Nah, I'll come," he says. "Tomorrow." He is even more disconcerted now, because she knows how far New York is as well as he does. But he doesn't question it, because that's never been his style. And anyway, it's Rory. She would never not have a good reason.

"Okay," she says. It's the end of the conversation, and he waits to hear the phone click on the other line, but it doesn't. He can still hear her slight breathing on the other end. He waits and waits, but nothing changes, and finally he hangs up the phone himself.

--

He's not sure if this is the house. It looks like every other bungalow in the well-to-do neighborhood, clean and kempt and homey. Something about the place unsettles him. Weak morning sunshine and a cloudless sky; it's beautiful – but quiet, mellow. A lazy wind blows through the trees and he can't really imagine her living here, the girl happiest when her hands were busy, her mouth moving, and her mind engaged.

He rings the bell and he waits and the person in the world he least expected to see, except maybe his dead grandfather, answers the door. It's that jerk from the dinner in Hartford, from so long ago. Jess struggles to recall his name. He thinks it's Ritchie, but he realizes that was probably an embellishment on his own part.

"Jess," says the man, stepping aside to allow him entrance. Apparently he's decided to let bygones be exactly that. "Come on in. She's been asking for you."

The man leaves the front door open. He's putting on a jacket, and pocketing a cell phone. Jess notes a wedding ring and says nothing. "I've got to get the office," he's saying. "She's right in through there. And hey – thanks for coming. It means a lot to her." He touches Jess's arm in a pseudo-paternal gesture, and is gone.

Jess walks through the house, taking his time. It's a nice house, more than a little fancy; the kind of atmosphere that makes him feel like he should be wearing a tie. He checks out the pictures on the walls. No kids, apparently, but it seems they have a dog. The air smells a little stale, he remarks to himself. Like an old person's house. Almost – almost like a hospital.

She's on the patio, reclining in a deck chair, book in hand. She hears his footsteps and says his name before turning: "Jess," and he's frightened at how easily weakness translates from the phone to reality. Standing in front of him, she looks smaller, but he's pretty sure that's his imagination. Even so, he can that she is wispier, paler. Frail. He almost doesn't want to look at her.

"Jess," she says again. "It's been a while."

"Seven years," he concedes.

There is silence.

"You're married," he says, indicating the ring on her hand.

"What? Oh, yes." She looks down at it. "I am."

"When I heard, I never actually thought it would be that guy."

"Yeah, well," she says. "He's gotten better." She twists the ring around her finger. "He's a good husband," she tells him.

More silence. It seems to Jess that they've somehow gotten closer, although he doesn't remember moving and he doesn't think she did, either. He can smell signature Rory: coffee and citrus perfume. They are frozen in an eternity, and he stands there inhaling her scent and wondering what the hell he is doing here. Then she takes his face in her hands and kisses him, and it's exactly how he remembers it.

"Rory," he says, breaking away. "What are you doing?"

"I'm dying," she says simply. "Brain tumors, and the doctors can't do a thing but overload me with painkillers so that I can't feel a thing. It doesn't hurt. Much. But I don't have a lot of time."

His eyes search hers. They're still the same startling blue, clear and bold and perfect. He puts his mouth on her lips, and forgets everything else.

They stumble around the house, looking for a surface to aid them in their quest to fuse to together, to make up for all the time they've lived apart: the coffee table, the couch, the kitchen counter. They explore each other like two virgins, savoring every sweet release, because in a way they are strangers again; boy and girl, man and woman, nothing is the same but everything is familiar. She's inside of him, part of him; their memories blend together and they're teenagers again, and nothing is fiercer than what they feel for each other. Her mouth is hot on his body and her skin is still as smooth as he remembers. They embrace in the shower, on the floor, and even in the bed she shares with her husband. He can't believe he survived seven years without touching her, saying that she meant nothing, because right now he thinks he's always loved her – and if he has to share her, then so be it.

--

She grabs a jell-o carton for herself and offers him anything in the fridge, but he chooses a carton also. Jess takes his cues from her, and pretends to enjoy it even though it tastes disgusting. Sugar-free. He thinks fleetingly of burgers and french fries, Indian food, blueberry pie and ice cream in cones.

"Why did you call?" he asks.

"Nothing good on TV," she jokes, but her eyes are sad. "It's all this time alone. In this house, with everything. My last days," she says, and makes a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. "Makes you rethink things."

"Rory, I – " he starts, but she stops him. He guesses she already knows what he'd say anyway. He said it first, after all.

"We only have today," she says. "Mom and Luke and the kids are coming out tomorrow, to – to say goodbye." Her throat catches on the first part of 'goodbye' and she looks away from him. Her expression is hard to place. Bitter, or angry maybe. He wonders if she is afraid to die, and if she knows how afraid he is to lose her again.

"Will you finish my jell-o?" She's only eaten a few bites. He nods and takes big spoonfuls, forcing himself to swallow, and hopes he'll keep it down.

--

They're standing on the patio again. It's midafternoon and breezy, and his arms are wrapped around her in an awful understanding of what it means to regret. Jess stares out into the spacious backyard. His eyes follow the complicated, professional landscaping and he marvels, silently, at the transience of the world.

Her thin form shivers a little in his embrace, chilly even with in pleasant warmth of sunshine.

"There's so many things that we never got to do," she sighs.

"Like what?"

"I could have followed you to California," she says.

"I should have stayed in Stars Hollow," he answers.

"I should have gone with you to New York," she says.

"I could have lived somewhere else. For you," he says back.

They're quiet for a time, watching the leaves of the avocado tree move in the wind.

"I love you," she says, wistful but without tears. "I wish we could have had it."

He doesn't answer, because he doesn't have to.

--

It's nearly sundown, time for him to leave her forever. But it doesn't matter, because soon she's going to be gone for good, and he doesn't think he can bear it.

She wraps her arms around his neck one last time.

"Promise me something?" she whispers.

"Anything."

"Promise that you won't follow me." Her breath catches a little, but she is persistent. "I mean it, Jess. Don't do anything."

She knows him too well. He is quiet for a moment, aware that she is watching his reaction.

"Alright," he agrees.

"Say it," she insists.

"I promise."

--

It's a few weeks later when he returns to the little house. This time, Jess barely notices his surroundings. The world has become duller than he remembers it – less exciting and meaningful since he got that message from Luke. But it's alright: He's got a plan, a loophole, and a challenge, that will let him get his catharsis one last time.

He knocks and waits. To the west is the setting sun, casting everything in deep red shadow. Eventually the same man opens the door, somber-looking and reserved.

"Jess," he says, "I guess you heard the news."

"Can we talk? It's about Rory," Jess says.

"Sure." The man lets him in and pours out a cup of coffee.

They sit at the very table Jess had Rory pressed up against a scant four weeks ago. Neither speaks. His mind is flooded with thoughts of her: when they first met, their first kiss, the second goodbye, all those times from when they were teenagers, and the single golden day she spent in his arms before she left this world. The ache is constant and laborious; he cannot wait to rid himself of such a feeling.

Neither man speaks.

Jess sips his coffee slowly. He never cared for the drink, but it makes him think of Rory. While he gathers his words, he watches the man across from him fiddle with the silver watch he wears, and tries to remember his name. Rory mentioned it once, maybe twice. Logan, he thinks, but it might be wrong.

As empty as he feels, Jess cannot help but look forward to the conversation. It's been a long, long time since he's unleashed his powers of sarcasm to their fullest extent. Getting to other people always had been a skill of his. Since he'd gotten his act together, and grown up, it hadn't been exercised nearly enough.

Across the table, Logan is getting antsy.

"Listen, buddy, I'm happy to chat with you but I do have work in a while, so, if you want to hurry things up. . ."

Jess nods. Ready.

"She was great, wasn't she?"

Logan inclines his head, acquiescing.

"Smart, nice. . . and pretty, too."

"Beautiful," says Logan, and Jess feels a tiny stab of guilt at what he's about to do.

"And great in bed."

Logan looks up at him from across the table, a look of pure incredulity on his face.

"What?"

Jess chooses not to answer this question. Better to keep building it up, and get him really riled.

"You know, she does that thing with her tongue? And she doesn't seem like the kind of girl who would – but she swallows it all." Jess grins, to make the point.

There is an ugly look in Logan's face. "Shut up, man. I don't want to hear that."

"You know that we fucked, right?" Jess continues, abandoning all pretense of civility. "I came here, and she kissed me. Told me she wanted me, that you were never that good. That's why she called. She needed someone to give it to her good one last time."

He takes a moment to register Logan's body language. Hands curled into fists, white knuckles. Almost there.

"She needed it before you were married, too – did she ever tell you we had a thing in Philadelphia?"

Logan has cracked. "Get out," he spits, "or I swear you'll regret it."

Jess ignores him.

"Yeah, she said you cheated on her, so we fucked a few times to help her feel better about going back to you."

That lie feels good on his tongue. Probably because he wished it had really happened that way. He thinks briefly of the kiss that had been their last contact for seven long years, but then he comes back to the task at hand.

"But, man, I never thought she'd marry you. Congratulations! Too bad all your cash couldn't help her, though. Couldn't find a cure. She was bored so she called me. Doesn't really say much about you, man, that you couldn't even fuck her good before she copped it. But I got you covered there."

"Shut up!" yells Logan, but he keeps on going.

"I had her up against that wall," Jess says coolly, pointing to it, "the kitchen counter, the shower. . . in your bed. The couch, and man, that hot tub was awesome. . ."

These words are even nicer, because they're true.

"She begged me to give it all to her. She was moaning like crazy, and she had my whole cock down her throat. . . She was screaming so loud, but I made her come again and again. We fucked for hours, until I had nothing left in me. And you know what? It wasn't safe sex."

"SHUT THE FUCK UP! SHUT THE FUCK UP AND GET THE HELL OUT OF MY HOUSE!" he screams, and Jess laughs just to spite him.

He leans close to Logan's face and whispers, "She did it all nice and slow, panting like some fucking bitch in heat. Couldn't get enough of me."

"SHUT UP YOU FUCKING BASTARD!"

Logan winds his arm back and hits him in the face. Jess is all too happy to return the gesture.

And that's it. There are fists flying and Logan yelling and it feels good to throw punches at the asshole that totally screwed over Rory's life. And the blows he gets in return are almost better; a kind of penance, a way to redeem himself and make up for all the crap he put other people through.

In the middle of it Logan stops, breathing heavily, and says, "Just get out of here, Jess. Forget about it."

He has his answer ready.

"What's wrong, can't take it? 'Cause Rory could. She took it over and over again. And she loved every second of it."

Logan lets out a scream of rage and the punch hits him in the mouth. He tastes blood. Another one in his eye, and his stomach, and his neck. He's not really making any effort to dodge them – thank god this idiot's too stupid to notice.

Jess feels every wound sharply. That ability he picked up in youth, to hold pain in and keep fighting – it's repressed. His body stays soft and unready for each blow, and though he fights back, there's no true attempt to win. He could cream this guy if he wanted, only he doesn't. He's dimly aware of smarting knuckles and aching ribs; but really, he doesn't care. This what he wanted.

They trample through the house, knocking over objects and hitting the furniture, but Jess isn't quite there any more. He's reliving the last time he trashed someone's house in a fight, though that had really been pure self-defense. This time is not so easy to chalk up on either side, but it's still because of her. Just like before.

There's a particularly hard blow to his chin, and a tooth wiggles loosely.

He's bruised and bloody and this has gone on long enough. They've broken two windows, counting the one in the door, and he doesn't want to mess this guy up too badly, because Rory wouldn't like that.

They're on the front steps and when the next punch comes, Jess lets himself fall backward. Hard.

His head hits the pavement and he feels a wonderful release. There's no pain anymore, just a slight throbbing in the back of his neck. It's the end. Up in the night sky, star after star is winking out. These are his last moments, and he uses them to send a silent plea to Rory, apologizing for the lies and everything else he's done. He should probably be thinking of his family, but it's her blue eyes and soft kisses that occupy his final thoughts.

Distantly, he hears a man's voice yell, "Shit!" and footsteps coming nearly. A heavy pressure on his chest, uncomfortable, but already fading.

He hears the voice again. "Oh god – shit! – Hello? Help, there's a guy, we got into a fight and he fell, and I can't hear a heartbeat. . ."

A/N: There you go. Reviews and feedback are very much appreciated.