A/N: Okay. So, here it is. The conclusion. First of all, I'd like to reiterate my thanks to those who helped me complete this story. Namely, geminigrl11 for the beta, which was quite an undertaking, and sendintheklowns for the continual cheerleading throughout the process. Also, special thanks to Piratelf, who gave me advice when I needed it. And mostly, to anyone who has spent time reading this, I truly appreciate it. This took a lot of time to write and post so it's good to know that it wasn't all in vain.

A/N: This fic is part of a larger verse, which I do hope to continue. However, I have no idea when I will complete the next fic, so I can't give a good idea of when that will be, but I do hope that when I do get something else up, that I'll see you all again :)

CHAPTER FORTY

Funny thing about life. It sort of always seemed to go on. All the tragedies and victories, small or otherwise, were barely ripples in its existence, a fact that held true even in the melodramatics of small towns. Especially there, Rory thought from time to time. Because, for all the people of Stars Hollow were obsessed with change and what was new, they always reverted back to the safe and comfortable and the familiar. That shouldn't have surprised Rory, not after all this time, but she was a little sheepish to admit that she'd never really figured it out until now.

Now that her large acquisition was little more than fleeting gossip. Now that the party was a happy memory. Now that Rory's presence was another staple of life that people could come to expect, seeing her out at events: seeing her cooped up in the Gazette's office, downing her own pot of coffee daily.

And Rory would be the first to acknowledge how simply her life had fallen into that place. Taking over the Gazette was as natural as anything, in a very Gilmore sort of way. The financial side of the paper gave her a headache, and she hated looking at their subscription numbers and figuring out how to keep decent paperboys and girls on a year-round basis. She found, however, that Meredith knew more than the basics of InDesign, and that, in truth, she much preferred such managerial duties.

Which was okay by Rory. She liked page design better than numbers and figures any day of the week.

Besides, she had her hands full figuring out what to cover and how. In all of her journalistic experience, she found that playing Editor in Chief was actually a bit more daunting than she'd ever realized. Ned's very laissez-faire attitude was likely nothing more than a built-up wall of indifference designed to maintain his sanity. Because it was work. A lot of it, too, which really, she supposed, she should have figured. She'd just always assumed that if Ned could do it, anyone could.

Ned really was better than she'd thought.

But so was she. And despite the intricacies of guesstimating word counts and getting reporters on the scene at the right time, she took to it like a fish to water. It made her little anal retentive heart so happy to be in charge of doling out word counts and photo sizes. And arranging them on a page was like an organizational masterpiece. Well, as much as it could be when done in a daily cycle.

Okay, so it was messy and it was hard and it was up and down and all around, but Rory loved it. She loved it. She loved the chaotic nature. She loved that it was a puzzle she had to figure out. She loved that she got to dictate what was covered and how.

And she didn't change as much as anyone would have thought. The mast head did get a much needed overhaul, but she kept the column structure and all the other major fonts the same. The sections were solid, if generic, and she didn't even cut out the Social News page, as much as it hurt her to keep it. There was something oddly gratifying, about publishing who did what where. It kept her in constant motion, anyway, and it made the readers happy.

That didn't mean that everything stayed the same. Editorials became a biweekly event and Rory took to writing a column of her own. She tried to find more real news, things that mattered, and she wasn't afraid of making people mad. Nope, she rather enjoyed it actually, in that self-righteous way of hers. She hadn't forgotten even after all that had happened that she was Rory Gilmore, journalist, carrier of truth, and all that ethical jazz.

As for the office, she found that she didn't have the heart to change it completely. The desks were still the same outdated ones as always and despite Lyman's half-hearted attempts to help, she even kept the configuration the same. What she did do, with Meredith's begrudging help, was to clean them off. What she found in the eclectic mess of papers on top was notes and assignments from the 70s and beyond, some of which she filed meticulously, others of which earned a good laugh and a quick trip to the trash.

Yes, things were settling down for Rory Gilmore, Editor in Chief. She found she actually had to work more and she understood more about why Ned was probably anxious to leave. Mornings were early with preplanning of pages. Design went on throughout the day as work came in, and it was an ever-constant process of flux. Late nights were pulled for that last minute story, for that last minute correction, for Rory was a diligent copy-editor and she knew every letter of text on her pages. A typo was positively tragic to her, and she aimed to rid the paper of them.

It was an impossible task maybe, but one that made her just that much happier and made Lyman just that much more prone to type poorly. Nancy was surprisingly easy to work with--her articles, for all her sass and superiority, were much cleaner than her counterparts' and the woman knew her way around a comma. Dewey was a wild card, but one Rory couldn't help but love, as he tackled the would-be controversies in town without remorse. He was ideal for that, she knew, because he really didn't have much else to lose.

Work was dominating, but Rory got frequent visits from her mother, and she still made daily trips to Luke's for some semblance of a lunch break. She sometimes enlisted Lane to write album reviews, a new feature she was trying out. But maintaining a social life was hard, harder than ever.

Her grandparents had been surprised, to say the least, but Rory could tell they were thrilled with the outcome. Their granddaughter, and editor in chief. It sounded good, and they ordered subscriptions for everyone they knew. At dinner on Fridays, she received weekly quizzes on her distribution stats and a multitude of suggestions for stories to cover. In all, Rory was pretty sure they were just happy that she was still around. They had their bragging rights, but more importantly, they still had weekly dinners as often as Rory could make them.

She talked to Dean, mostly on the phone, though sometimes she caught him at Luke's and they would chat over a sandwich or two. And she supposed it was also a funny thing that happened between them, two old first loves, two probable best friends, who found themselves in the one place they never thought they'd be and both as close and as far apart as they'd ever been.

Yet, they were thriving. The stereo shop was breaking all its sales records and Rory's distribution was even attracting readers from Hartford. And they laughed and they had fun and Rory was starting to believe that this was what fate had intended for all along.

Then one day, the front door opened.

It wasn't an unusual day. She had been there since six, scowling at her computer. The office was half-full. Meredith came promptly every day at eight and Lyman had wandered in around eleven because apparently working at home was too difficult with the kids sometimes. She felt irritable and Meredith kept giving her these looks and Lyman was snarky and she hadn't heard from Dewey and Nancy was determined to double the size of the article on a local scholarship winner. Which was basically business as usual.

So, why she looked at all at the front door was rather a mystery to her. It could have been Nancy, quite easily, as her deadline was near and of all of Rory's loyal employees, Nancy was really the only one who came close to being punctual. It could have been Dewey, even, who probably could have run out of places to haunt for a day. Or her mother, who liked to surprise her at random times, because apparently Rory "needed" it, else she was prone to be lost in the most ridiculously stressful internal diatribes that would render her utterly useless to herself and the world around her.

And yes, she hated when her mother was right, though Rory suspected that she was only right because it was a condition that her mother herself had passed onto her.

It could have been Taylor to complain, Kirk to vie for page space, the PTA to lobby for free advertising. Anything, everything, endless possibilities.

Still, when it was Dean who walked through the door, she was pretty much dumbfounded.

Dumbfounded because it was Dean. It was Dean who had stood there and understood Rosemary's Baby. Dean who had carried her box and listened to her ramble about cake. Dean who had hopped on a bus to say hi. Dean.

He wasn't a kid anymore. He wasn't skinny, he didn't wear a leather jacket and Rory didn't even know if he still had his bike. He didn't work at Doose's, he wasn't the new kid. He was Dean. She knew that, she'd known that for a while, but somehow it just struck her like a fist in the gut, like a frighteningly clear reality that she still craved with every last fiber of her being.

She had never wanted him more. And he had never been so hard to get.

And she was staring.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, glancing around almost nervously. Meredith was eyeing her, a glint of curiosity in her face. Lyman, for his part, was leaned back in his chair, chewing his pen while staring rather conspicuously at her with an air of humor.

Dean grinned a little, quick and uncertain. "I just, well, realized I'd never been here yet," he said. "You know, to see what it is you do. That's something that friends do, right? They know each other."

"Right," she said, not sure where he was going with this.

"Well, it's just that you come been to the stereo shop all the time," he said. He paused, looking at her carefully, before smiling again. "You've been really great about that, you know. Since you've been back and all."

She blushed a little, despite her best efforts not to. She'd made a point of that, almost to correct the fact that she'd neglected it so long ago. She just hadn't realized he'd noticed. "I do love my stereo gear," she said. "I still need to make a decision about that MP3 player."

"Yeah," he said, ducking his head and rubbing the back of his hair. "So, this is it?"

"Yeah," Rory said. "This is it. My entire net worth is now riding in this place. I know it doesn't look like it could possibly be worth that much money, but I replaced my computer and bought a new digital camera. I couldn't get anything done when it took five minutes to process everything and when you're throwing around thousands of dollars, another thousand really isn't so big of deal."

Dean looked around. "It's nice," he said. "You have time to show me around?"

It was hard not to be nervous. She glanced at Meredith, who was still watching with raised eyebrows. And Lyman, who was grinning a positively salacious grin at this point.

"I understand you're busy," Dean said quickly. "I mean, it's the middle of a work day. You've probably got tons to do."

"No," she said. "I mean, yes. I mean, there's always tons to do. It's a newspaper, after all. And it's like, if you don't come to work every day then there's no paper. Which really defeats the purpose of buying a newspaper, if you think about it. So yes, lots of work, but it's always lots of work, so that doesn't really make it a lot anymore, since a lot seems like a somewhat relative term."

He scrunched his brow as he followed her words and Rory wished there was an off button to her own vocal cords. Or maybe a slow down feature on the little thing that was her stream of consciousness. How had she ever managed to get a boyfriend, much less keep one?

Did she dare say it? That fate might possibly have a role?

Lucky for her, Dean had always found her neurosis more endearing than annoying, though decidedly still confusing. She had always figured it was just part of who she was and how she was and anyone who loved her, really loved her, had to love that, too. And Dean had loved her more than most.

"Yeah," he said. "Well. If this is a bad time--"

"No!" she said quickly. "Not at all! That was sort of what I was trying to say. Only it came out all wrong. As usual."

He smiled tentatively, relieved. His eyes roamed a bit, taking it in. "Interesting decorating job," he said, noting the mostly barren walls. They were adorned sporadically with news clippings, magazine cutouts. Layouts Rory liked. Articles worth reading. Issues that she was proud of.

"Yeah," she said. "It's a little busy, I guess, but that's why I got a degree in journalism and not interior design."

Moving closer to study one of the walls, he nodded. "Nah, it's perfect," he said. He glanced at her, smiling. "Inspirational, I'm sure. Which is what a full-time newspaper editor would need, I think."

She couldn't help but grin back. Of course he got it. He always got things like that. He always got her. "Inspiration for the attention impaired," she offered. "I should market it to kids with ADD. It'd be a huge craze."

"Inevitably," he agreed. "Is that your office?"

Looking back at the open door and the windowed room, she said, "I like to think of the entire thing as my office. My stuff is everywhere and it's hardly off limits. But yeah. When I need to find someplace to close the door and scream, that's the place. I'd use the restroom, but whenever Dewey's around, he's pretty consistent about using it. Every hour on the hour. It's a little creepy really, but hey, you can't fault a guy for being regular. I'm sure he's better for it, but there's only the one, you see. So those days when I bring in doughnuts, we get a little backlogged around ten AM. Luckily, the pet store next door is pretty nice about letting us use theirs."

And she was rambling. Classically. She just couldn't stop. Not ever. And not with Dean standing there at her job, which made her tingle in a way she couldn't explain. They were friends, sure, and they talked and did stuff but he'd never gone out of his way to visit her at work. She knew full well he was supposed to be at work himself, that normally he would be even if Gilbert and his mother were around to cover things. No, this was different. This was like...well, like before. Like when he would surprise her, like when the only thing she saw in his eyes was her.

She rambled for many reasons. The nervous excitement of being around the person that she loved was one of them. And if that person was doting on her? Well, then the rambling could only increase.

Lyman seemed to choke on his coffee, then coughed a few times into his hand. She caught Meredith rolling her eyes.

"Wow. I think that was more information than I needed about bathrooms. And about Conrad Dewey."

"Well, maybe any information about bathrooms and Conrad Dewey is too much information."

"Likely," he agreed. Then he paused, nibbling slightly on the inside of his lip. A strand of hair fell across his forehead and she could tell he was thinking. Thinking, like deciding. Then he looked up. "Do you want to go get something to drink?"

"We have coffee here," she was saying before she could stop herself. "And soda. In the fridge. I mean. Yeah."

"Oh," Dean said, his eyes going to the half full pot and dirty fridge. "You do." He seemed to swallow hard and it occurred to Rory that if ever the was a time to believe in fate, this was it. She needed fate to overcome the stupidity of herself, to keep Dean talking even when there seemed to be nothing left to say.

She could have said something. She probably should have. But she could feel the moment rising, feel it struggling to be something more, and it made her tingly and nauseous all at once.

"What about Twinkies?" he said suddenly.

"Twinkies?"

He blinked, wide-eyed. "Yeah. I know you like them. Cake. Creamy filling. Really bad for you. Do you have any of those?"

"I can't say that we have any Twinkies," she said. "Some ice cream, possibly. The leftovers from Chinese last night, for sure. But Twinkies? I can't even remember the last time I had a Twinkie."

Dean raised his eyebrows. "You can't even remember? You? You love Twinkies."

"Life was busy while I was away," Rory explained.

"Life can never be too busy for Twinkies."

But it had been. It'd been too busy for Twinkies, for family, for a boyfriend. But not anymore. "I definitely see the error of my ways," she said. "It takes a real friend to point that out."

"Yeah," he said with a smile. "Well, it takes an even better one to rectify it. Can you spare a few minutes?"

She didn't even have to look at Lyman or Meredith. And she didn't even care about the deadline. "Yeah," she replied. "I think can I spare a minute."

-o-

The day was cool outside, the fading summer giving way to spring. The trees were beginning to color, a vast array of hues, orange and red and warm even in the brisk day.

Autumn always had seemed like the end of something, the last throes of a summer wilting away. She supposed there was something sad about that, something a little bittersweet, but walking next to Dean, she couldn't help but think that all endings were beginnings, too. Of what, though, she just wasn't sure.

Dean was quiet, a little edgy maybe, and Rory couldn't quite tell where this was going. What they were doing. Just awkward chitchat, random small talk, before Dean stopped at Doose's.

"Doose's?" she asked. "You're taking me to Doose's? At least when I dragged you away from work, I took you to real eating establishments."

"Hey, we've had lots of good times here," he said. "I spent a better part of my youth trolling these aisles."

"More reason I would think you wouldn't want to come back," Rory said.

"It's the stellar price of produce," he said with a shrug. "Besides, sometimes remembering where we came from isn't such a bad thing, is it?"

"If we wish to relive the awkward years, I guess," she said. "A little masochistic, but to each their own, dear Narcolepsy boy."

He laughed. "I haven't heard that one in years," he said. "I really screwed up that night. I really screwed up a lot of things."

"We both did," she said. "I think it's an unwritten rule of growing up: you have to screw up at least as much as you get right. Otherwise, you never get any respect from the other adults who have stood up under their own equally stupid humiliations."

"And you think I'm masochistic," he said. "I would think it's more that every experience helps us learn, helps us change. Who would we be if we hadn't lived through all of that?"

It was a thought, and one she had pondered in her decision to stay here. The what-ifs, the near-things, all of it. What made her who she was. What choices defined her, changed her life. What moments still mattered. "Hey," she said suddenly, "we're in the aisle with the ant poison!"

Dean frowned, looking around. "Yeah, and I thought we wanted Twinkies. Those are two aisles over, but you know if you prefer ant poison--"

"No," she said. "I just...this is a good aisle."

He paused and looked at her, really looked at her, good and hard. There was that look in his eyes, that same look. That one she remembered while cleaning out her locker all those years ago. That twinkle, those dimples, the sense of certainty in his voice. The banter, it was back. Everything, just as it was.

And suddenly, she was sixteen in Doose's, making fun of him for saying pop, and he was wearing a green smock as he leaned over and kissed her.

Her first kiss.

Standing there, Doose's wasn't so different. Groceries lining the shelves, waxed linoleum that Taylor fretted over. Even harsh fluorescent lighting and boxes of baking soda nearby.

Standing there, somehow they were.

And yet, it was like they'd never left.

This time, when his lips met hers, all the sparks were still the same. And she remembered: the excitement, the newness, how much he'd loved her, and how much she had taken for granted. How he made her feel. All her dreams, all her fantasies, all the things she wanted rolled right into one. One perfect kiss. One perfect moment.

When he pulled away, he was looking at her, that same hopeful look on his face.

The first time, she'd run away.

This time--this time, she smiled at him. "I owe you more than a thank you for that," she said.

He laughed. "Yeah? And what do you think you owe me?"

She grinned, putting her hands around his neck and leaning up on her toes. "This," she whispered, her mouth right next to his, closing her eyes as their lips met again.

When they parted, his hands rested on the small of her back and he was looking down into her eyes. "This time, I think maybe I need to thank you," he said. "But I promise not to run away."

"Well, that's much appreciated," she said, feeling comfortable in his arms. "But why do you need to thank me?"

"For waiting," he said.

She cocked her head. "Waiting for what?"

"For me," he told her. "I wasn't ready. I wasn't sure. After everything, I think I was scared of who we'd be together. You've always made me do things I can't understand. You've always made me crazy in the best and worst of ways. I didn't know how to deal with that. I didn't want to deal with that. But you--you've changed. You've changed so much and I'm so glad you were willing to wait for me to see that."

He was thanking her. He was thanking her. After everything, after all she'd done to him, after all she'd learned from him, he was thanking her. "Dean," she said. "You do realize that a lot of this is because of you."

It was his turn to look confused.

She nodded readily. "This change in me. It's because of you. I came back and thought it was all the same. That everything would be just like it was. And when it wasn't, I didn't know how to deal with it. I almost ran away from it all because it was just too much to figure out. But you--what you've done, it's more than anything I've ever accomplished. We should be throwing parties for you. For going to college, for coming back home when your family needed you, for turning around the stereo shop when you never wanted to run it to begin with."

At this, he chuckled. "You forget one thing," he said.

She was forgetting something? How could she be forgetting something? Dean had done so much, he'd achieved more than she ever could in all the ways that mattered, he'd helped her figure out herself--

"You're Rory Gilmore," he said, moving his hands to her neck and letting his fingers run through her hair. "Rory Gilmore gets parties. She gets attention and love and respect because she's probably the best thing that's ever happened to Stars Hollow."

She eyed him, almost suspicious. But his tone was light, airy, and his eyes were roving over her face with that look of his. That look she'd taken for granted. That look like she was the only thing that mattered, like she was the only thing he could see. That look she'd wondered if she'd ever see again.

And she realized that the words he was speaking, wasn't just paying lip service. He believed it.

The feeling that swelled up inside of her was that same giddy excitement of a sixteen year old. It was better than Jess, it was better than Logan, it was better than all the parties in the world.

It was the feeling of being loved. Deep and unconditionally.

She tightened her grip around him, letting her body ease closer into him. "But you're Dean Forester," she said. "And you deserve all those things, too."

He just grinned. "Yeah, but I don't want them."

"Oh yeah?" she asked. "What do you want?"

"I just want you."

"You know you can't always get what you want," she said.

He leaned down, his lips close to hers. "Yeah," he whispered, a breath away from kissing her. "But sometimes you do."

As he kissed her again, she couldn't have agreed more.

end