AN: I hope this one isn't a bit too confusing, switching back and forth between people. Every time you review a story, a unicorn is born.

Cheers, Friday x

In Mourning a Lost Moment

He's seen that look before, he thinks. The boys who have fallen for Rory Gilmore wear it upon their faces, gormless and useless. He thinks of Marty, how he trailed around behind her, wanting her. He thinks of that Dean guy, the construction worked who stood there, dumped her whilst she wore a tiara. He never would have fitted in their world. The world of Emily and DAR meetings, expensive parties and Yale.

But this guy, he wears his broken heart at the hands of Rory Gilmore like a badge of honour. This writer from Philadelphia who has given him nothing to mock. He's different, the writer boy, he knows Rory. He loves her. That smile as she rambles, that smirk as Logan asks if they were 'two straws in a milkshake, rock around the clock'. The brief look of apology she threw his way when he decided to join them for dinner. They have history, and that bugs him. He orders another Scotch.

X

He's seen that look before, he thinks. The smug, confident look of a Ivy League rich kid, with his neat scotch and his porsche. He doesn't have that Rory face, the one where you can feel your lips twitching up at the side because you can't help it, it's her. He knows he still does it, can't help smiling as she rambles. And that's how he knows this Logan guy is not in love with Rory Gilmore. Not in the way he should be. A guy like that is used to easy lays, cheap women who like expensive champagne. Jess knows he's screwed up in a lot of ways, but he would have gone to hell before he let her give up her dream. In fact, you could say that's exactly what he did. He didn't want to bring her down with him. And now he's staring at this beautiful, smart, kind young woman who has no idea who or what she is. And he wants to shake her. Tell her how much she's worth. It's like his sacrifice was for nothing.

XX

So he wrote a book, so what? Logan could write a book, if he wanted. He'd had a great life of excitement, boarding schools in foreign countries, business takeovers, and secret societies. And then this Gilmore girl came along, and suddenly he thought he ought to settle down, stick with one woman. And she was pretty special. He doesn't know if he loves her yet. But that Jess guy does. He has that arrogant look of someone who's lost one bet and just knows they're going to win the next. Logan thinks, perversely, he'd quite like to play Jess Mariano at poker. Then he'd really know him. He thinks he'd be good, be able to bluff, being able to steal everything you have from under you, and you turn around, and he's gone.

Rory loves books, his drunken mind tells him. Rory would love to be with a writer. Not a businessman. Not a media tycoon. A writer. He could read the longest books in history, and he'll never be a writer.

XXX

He tells her he knows her better than anyone, and waits for her to deny it. He used the same line of argument all those years ago, in that dark dorm room. I know you, this is what you want, I know it is. She doesn't call him on it, just looks at him like she's woken up. Maybe he finally gets to play the prince after all. Saving her, like she saved him. It feels strange to see her life so fragmented, and his working all of a sudden. He won't lie, part of him wanted to go back, impress her, tell her she inspired him. He had no hopes about romance, he wouldn't let himself go that far. But he'd hoped for a part in her life, a little side role. And he gets it, as someone who will finally be honest with her. He always knew how to push her buttons, make her react.

When did you start wearing so much make-up, he wonders. Do you still have those beaten up Converse? Do you still have the t-shirts with the semi-political phrases, and the jeans with the hole in the knee? You would fit in my world, Rory Gilmore. I can offer you writing, and performance poetry and art on the walls. I could give you notes in the margins, and sober Saturday nights. It's the first time he feels he could offer her anything.

Instead, he wishes her a belated happy birthday, and smiles when she's not surprised he remembered. He knows she remembers his too.

XXXX

He's had two more drinks since they stepped outside, and another on the way. He thought this girl was part of his world, his society. Sure, his parents would judge her, but his parents were morons. But she knew about the drinking, and the sleeping around, and the boarding schools, the expulsions, the danger and stupid tricks. And she still liked him. Loved him, even.

But she wasn't really his, was she? She didn't understand what the Birkin bag meant, or why the Life and Death Brigade mattered, or the strain of being born to such rich and important people, that you had no choice in life.

And this writer, who can suddenly appear, with his cheap taste in beer, and his beat-up car, can look at her like he understands every single part of her. Like he knows what she's thinking, and what she means when she rambles, and how she got to be where she is. Old friends. Logan knows that this writer blames him for Rory's escape from Yale. And he will not be blamed.

XXXXX

He sits in his car, feeling nothing but pure loss. Tonight, after years of wondering, of thinking, of hoping. For one night, he had the chance to sit with Rory Gilmore, show how far he'd come, make her proud. Maybe he would explain some of the bad choices he'd made, she'd brush them away and say it was old history. They'd leave as friends with that throb of something more. Potential. Always potential. They would have laughed, and caught up, and she'd know something about his friends. It had taken so many years, but he was ready to talk. He wanted to tell her everything. And it had been taken away. He mourned a little for his lost chance, and hoped that brief moment of clarity would last for her. He never thought he'd be disappointed in Rory Gilmore.

He sighed, waited for five minutes more, incase she chased after him. But she wasn't the chasing kind. Always the chased. He drove away, and decided he'd tryagain another day.

XXXXXX

Rory Gilmore very rarely felt stupid. But there was a ball of frustration and envy and irritability itching at her stomach. She was with Logan. Logan, who had tried to belittle her friend. Her old friend. Her ex. Her Jess. And what had Logan given her but an excuse to slack off, a slightly wearied liver and a bag that cost more than anything else she owned?

And Jess had written a book. A book. And she wanted the chance to tell him how fantastic it was. He knew she'd read it, he knew there would have been no way, no matter how tired, no matter how many DAR functions she had, that she could have not stayed up all night to read his book. It was his.

And when she finished it, she started again, scouring the pages for a trace of her, of Luke, of their time together. Some proof that a short-lived relationship at sixteen meant anything to him. And she found tidbits. She found a few phrases she'd given him, a few traits that were hers. She'd found a heroine that was certainly not her, and a hero who was certainly not him. She'd found a bittersweet ending. And she'd almost cried, because Jess had somehow become a grown-up, with a job and an apartment and a brilliant novel in bookstores across America. And she was floating, no writing, no job, no reading. Living in a palace.

Rory realised, as she got into a cab that Logan had paid for, that she hadn't read a book in forever. Jess' book had been the first she'd read in a really long time. Reading had been replaced with parties and drinking, and events and tea parties.

Later, at Lane's, when she'd finally stopped wanting to cry, she settled down to sleep, dreaming of days spent on the bridge in Stars Hollow, fingers intertwined as they both read. She resolved to fix this. Because Rory Gilmore's life was not destined to be one of Birkin Bags, and expensive scotch. It was meant to be about journalism, university, and notes scribbled in the margins.