A/N: This was inspired by all of the recent buzz about the upcoming new episodes/short movies as ordered by Netflix. An entertainment commentator on my local news channel was an avid watcher of the original series, and speculated the other morning about what the past 9 years have been like for the residents of Stars Hollow. Considering Rory's seemingly unending ambition, she jokingly said "What's next? Is she going to be the US Press Secretary?" This is my idea of what that might look like, along with a few things I'd like to have happen as well (in the perfect Gilmore Girls world in my head).

Let me know in the comments if you'd like to see how this plays out, or if it's just a silly idea.

Chapter 1 – Her voice, her eyes

He closed his eyes briefly, pushing his new reading glasses up and pinching the bridge of his nose. God, these financial statements would be the death of him someday. Probably someday soon, he thought with a snort. This was definitely his least favourite part of doing business, which was probably why he was up so late going over the numbers from last quarter.

Scratch that, it was actually early by now. He swore silently at the alarm clock beside his bed.

Success was great, but it just meant more monitoring, more oversight, more details to watch for. The figures on the stack of printed pages swam before his eyes. Coffee. He needed coffee; with maybe a shot of booze in it. Except he wasn't doing that anymore; drinking, that is. It always just got him into trouble, so he had sworn off it, again. Maybe it would stick this time.

As he walked out to the kitchen, he switched on the TV across from the end of his bed. It was foolish to hope the constant noise would keep him alert for long enough to finish, but he was desperate. He had no plans in the morning, so sleeping in wasn't a problem. He just needed to get this done. Then he could crash and ignore the world for a few hours.

He returned a few minutes later with a steaming mug and a cereal bar. The flat screen was tuned to CNN, of course, even though he hadn't turned it on in a couple of days. He tried to tell himself that it was only natural to be interested in world events, but anyone who knew him well knew it was because of her. It had become a bit of an obsession for him since she started as a correspondent over two years ago.

He could still remember the morning he heard her voice over the sizzle of his breakfast bacon cooking. She was talking about the political fallout of the embassy attack in Benghazi, but she could have been reciting the phone book for all his heart cared. It seized up in his chest as the surprise and shock reverberated through his body.

That voice.

It drew him into the living room, his breakfast forgotten and blackening on the stove. And then there she was, looking directly at the camera, her blue eyes flashing. Her appearance shouldn't have affected him that much, after all those years. But he still equated her with his version of perfection, the unattainable siren disguised as a proper, driven career woman.

After that morning, he found himself watching CNN more often than not, unconsciously waiting to see and hear her again. She wasn't on camera that frequently, supplementing her on-air time with writing for other reporters and for various papers and magazines. Even if she wasn't credited in the byline, he could still recognize her voice in the words. Her writing was like listening to your favourite band: you could tell it was them, simply by the style and sound, even if you'd never heard the song before. He loved her writing. Hell, he'd loved it since he first read a paper of hers in school. It was just like her; hopeful, naïve but pragmatic, with a hint of wacky humour.

He shook his head at his own stupidity and returned to the spreadsheets fanned across his lap. He heard about snippets of her life, of course, running in similar circles as they did. He could have sought her out, easily and clandestinely if he really wanted to, but there was still a shred of pride left in his chest. He hadn't seen or spoken to her since she walked away, since they walked away from each other. It was in the past, which was how it should be – even if it had never really felt finished.

He reached blindly for his coffee, the liquid scalding his tongue on its pathway down. She'd gotten him hooked on it, a long time ago. It seemed easier at the time to just go along with her unhealthy addiction rather than try to break her of it. And after they were over, he'd just continued drinking the stuff, though never in the quantity that she and her crazy mother did.

Something in the columns of numbers caught his attention, and he circled it quickly. The sales numbers were off for those three days – another detail to look at next week at the management meeting. He continued on to the next page, slowly working his way through the pile of papers over the next hour. He stopped briefly to take a few bites of the cereal bar and sip from his now lukewarm coffee.

Ugh. Sacrilege. Coffee had to be hot, or it had to be poured down the drain. No exceptions.

He flipped to the final month of financial tables, and sighed heavily. He was never procrastinating about reviewing these, ever again; at least not until next month, when they would get buried on his desk until the last possible moment.

He bent closer, comparing the totals from the previous three months and the prior fiscal year. The numbers were up, but not as much as predicted. His pen was poised to underline the underwhelming dollar amount when an announcement caught his attention.

Or rather, a name caused his pen to skid across the paper, leaving a bright red line from left to right.

He focused on the screen, watching the intervening commercial and willing the talking head to reappear and either confirm or deny his heart palpitation.

"In other news, there's been a shakeup at the White House. President Obama is rumoured to be making an announcement today about his new Press Secretary. As you'll remember, John Christensen stepped down unexpectedly last month amid rumours of health problems. It gives us great pleasure, however, to tell you that a member of our own CNN team is next in line for the prestigious position."

His eyes were like saucers as the network flashed her headshot across the screen, followed slowly by candid shots and video stills representing the many stages of her career.

"That's right Morgan. Our own political correspondent, Rory Gilmore, will be joining the ranks at the White House. She is the youngest appointee in recent memory, and will bring with her a wealth of experience in both journalism writing, editing and political coverage."

The photo montage continued. A screen capture of her recent report on the US-led incursions into Syria was followed by a shot of her at her desk in the newsroom, her head bent over line-edited copy that was swimming in red corrections.

The male commentator came back on the screen, the slideshow moving to a small inset window over his left shoulder.

"Rory is Yale educated, and followed President Obama on the campaign trail before his first term in office, writing for an online magazine. Following that she wrote for several large newspapers, earning a spot in the White House Press Corps at the age of 25. As you know Sidney, she started with us a little over two years ago, and has been covering the hottest, most controversial political stories ever since."

The feed suddenly cut to a snippet of Rory reporting from outside Joe Biden's house earlier in the summer, unshed tears twinkling in her turquoise eyes.

"Some may want to use these tragic events as a political leg up, and they would be right in assuming that any major event can shake a politician, a party, a nation. However, I would remind you that no parent ever thinks they will bury their child. His position as the Vice President aside, today we should keep in our minds that Mr. Biden is a father, a family man, a red-blooded American and a human being. And today, his heart is breaking. Our hearts break with you, sir. From Washington, I'm Rory Gilmore for CNN."

God, he remembered that report; remembered feeling a lump in his throat when her voice quivered as she signed off.

"Rory has been a valued member of the CNN team, and I'm privileged to call her a personal friend. Good luck in the West Wing, Rory. We will miss you."

"Indeed Morgan. Good luck and best wishes, Rory. And try to go easy on our reporters when you face them across the podium. In other news, a 6.5 magnitude earthquake has rocked northern Afghanistan…"

He tuned out the rest of the headlines, concentrating on his beating heart and trembling fingers.

She'd done it. Holy Mother of God, she'd really done it. This was quite possibly the pinnacle of Rory's career, and he couldn't be happier for her. As the ex-boyfriend, he supposed he was probably entitled to a little wallowing, a smidgen of self-pity. She'd always been miles ahead of everyone else, especially him. No matter his successes, she would always be out in front – right where she belonged. But he could never be jealous of her. She was always destined for greatness; everyone around her could sense it.

He finished with the financial statements and set them aside, letting his head fall back against the headboard. The TV was still making noise in the background, and while he knew he should be giving his exhausted body what it wanted, he just couldn't fall asleep quite yet. He wasn't even going to lie to himself about it. His chest was still burning with excitement and pride and a bunch of other emotions he wasn't going to name. All he wanted was to see the story again.

Finally, the headlines looped back around and the announcement was made again, this time without the personal commentary. There were a few new pictures in the video segment, including one he'd never seen of her sitting in the front row at a campaign speech just before the 2008 election. Her pen was poised on her note pad, her long legs crossed demurely under a black pencil skirt. But what always killed him were those eyes. They were smart, sharp, never missing a detail. And he could easily drown in them.

When the program again turned to other world events, he shut the TV off.

He wanted to do something, something to acknowledge her amazing accomplishment. Her family would be jumping for joy and hiring skywriters to proclaim their glee, he was sure. They were all just crazy enough to pull something like that. And even though he was sure she would soon be overrun with congratulations, he couldn't suppress his desire to put his own two cents in.

The question was, how could he contact her? He had a favour he could call in, but it would be awkward. Things always were when it came to them and their past connections. And really, should he bother? They seemed to have been living under an unwritten, no-contact rule these past nine years, and he wasn't sure how she'd react if he broke it. Still, this was a momentous occasion, deserving of a little rule-breaking. He had always been good at convincing her to break the rules.

His mouth turned up in a smirk and he glanced again at the clock: 4:15am. Too early for most, but he'd be up. It was a Tuesday. He would definitely be up. His phone was in his hand before he could even really form the intent. And then it was ringing, and there was no turning back.

"Yeah?" came the gruff answer, clearly surprised to hear the phone ringing this early.

His stomach dropped into his feet, and he swallowed dryly before forcing the words out.

"Hey, Uncle Luke. I need an address…"