Disclaimer: Don't own them.

Author's Note: Don't ask where this came from, because I really have no idea. Just so you know, this type of fic is definitely not what you're used to reading from me. It's a departure from my usual style, and I'm not sure how this will go over. Therefore, your comments are even more appreciated. Just don't say I didn't warn you, okay?

Deep in the heart of every winter, the small lake buckles to the elements and freezes solidly into a sheet of icy white. Surrounded by a circle of trees, as if they are guarding this precious secret, it seems to lay in wait. For someone or something. And it does so quietly, reverently, for no one else knows of its existence.

Every winter, on this exact day in December, precise with the clock, he always returns. Always with another, the same beautiful girl, her hand clutched protectively in his. They pause together, his arms wrapped around her in a hug of remembrance as he caresses her hair with his lips. This embrace always seems to reassure her, and she then drifts away from him, slowly at first, before growing ever more brave. A shy giggle escapes her lips, innocent enough, as she trails her fingers through the dusty surface of the snow, flicking it towards him. He smiles in response, his lips curling slightly at the edges, but his eyes… his eyes are never awake with light.

They never are on this day.

Twirling over the cottony mounds of the bank, she raises on her toes, arms lifted above her as if in parody of a comedic ballet. She wants nothing more than to hear him laugh, for then she knows everything will be okay. If not now, then eventually. He tilts his head, the silent gesture alone telling her now isn't the time. Without words, they communicate, and she understands his plea, dipping her head as she meanders around the edge of the lake, thinking. Always intelligently thinking. The past is strange for her, precious memories buried in some sacred place, kept under lock and key until she is ready to access their meaning, to ask of him everything he knows she will. Questions about another time, another life.

And he will tell her about his first love.

An effervescent, familiar tinkle of laughter flows over him, and he gradually turns towards the sound, knowing he won't see her. But he does. In every beam of delight and elation, every tear of sorrow, every soothing kiss, he sees her. Feels her.

There is a splintering crash somewhere in the hidden forest, a branch giving way under a heavy blanket of snow and ice. As it collides with the ground, it resembles shattered glass.

The windshield of her car, shattered into a thousand pieces across the asphalt.

His glass of red wine as it hit polished hard wood, the liquid seeping into the cracks.

Like blood.

She waves at him, her fingers wiggling in a floppy pattern, and he lifts a solitary hand in response. As she dances in a circle, her long tendrils of chocolate gold beckon to him, weaving in and out with the wind. They bathe her face in warmth, clinging to her flushed cheeks. So different, yet hauntingly familiar.

Flashes of blue and scarlet as they told him they had done everything to save her.

She is Rory. Yet, she isn't.

They had tried and failed. His love, his only love, was gone.

She is Lorelai Leigh DuGrey, and she will never know her mother.

They had tried to stop him, he had rushed to the scene, in blind panic and desperate denial, knowing that it could never, would never, be true. And then he saw her car, crumpled in a heap. No, no… it was the same model as the one he had bought for her, but it had to belong to someone else.

The roads had been icy, and she had been rushing home for Leigh's first birthday party. Clowns and the circus was to be the theme, as a dirty balloon still floated inside the backseat of the car.

No, no. She was a good driver…

"Sir, sir! You can't go past here."

And then he saw her.

Lying on a stretcher, her body limp. He cradled her in his arms, frantic, balmy tears falling from him onto her porcelain face, as if wanting to restore life. Fluttering, her eyes opened slightly, blurring as they closed again, against her will.

"Rory… please, Rory."

Blurring and finally focusing on him.

A medic hurried by, and he would have grabbed him, but he didn't want to let go of her. "Wait, why aren't you taking her to the hospital… she needs help!"

"Sir, she isn't going to…"

"No! She is -" His voice cracked. "She is… aren't you, sweetie?"

"Tristan." Her whisper was scratchy, as if she hadn't spoken in all the years of her still young life. She lifted her hand, wanting to caress his cheek, but failed. "I… love you."

"I love you, more than anything." His fingers were on her face, her lips, her eyes. "And Leigh is waiting for you."

Her breath caught, struggling to fight, struggling to say the words. "Take care… of her… for me."

"You'll help me." He pressed his lips against her cold skin, the warmth of him branding her. "You'll help me."

Her eyes flooded now. "Love her as I love you."

"Rory, no, please… don't give up." He searched for her pulse. Erratic and weak.

"I'm… sorry." Wincing, she turned to face him fully, her head resting in the crook of his arm. "Remember… I'll always… be… with you." She smiled with the last word, her fingers fumbling for his.

His mouth met hers, and he felt her lips move as she tried to return the kiss. She lacked the strength to even do so. "My love."

And she closed her eyes for the last time.

She stands before him now, and she knows him by another name. She sees the sadness, a constant reminder in his eyes, an unbearable grief. She sees, but she doesn't quite understand. "Daddy?"

He picks her up, and her short legs automatically wrap around his waist, her tiny arms circling his neck. "Yes, angel?"

"Why do we come here?"

"This was…" He fights valiantly to remain strong, if only for her. She is everything to him now. "This was Mommy's favorite place."

"Why?" Six-year-olds are always full of questions.

"I kissed her here, for the first time."

She giggles again, all wide, blue-eyed innocence. "You kissed Mommy." Displays of affection are also amusing to six-year-olds.

Sometimes he wishes he was still a child, but then immediately regrets it. For then, he would never have met his first love. Or his second. "Many times." He nuzzles her neck, tickling her, and she squirms.

She leans back in his arms, suddenly wiser beyond her years. "You're sad."

"Yes."

"Don't be sad. I love you, Daddy."

"I love you, too, angel." And he is telling both of them. She fidgets, and he places her on the ground as she turns her face upward, catching swirling flakes with her tongue.

He gathers the bundle of roses, as he does every year on this day, removing the first one from the plastic wrapping.

White petals for her innocence and purity. For the day he first met her. He was oblivious to the fact then, but his life changed irreversibly that day. He was lost to her, captivated by a girl he didn't even know.

Yellow for a beautiful friendship, one which took years to form. Precious time wasted. But once they found each other, their bond was unbreakable, even withstanding the distance between Heaven and earth.

Pink for her unwavering elegance, for her sweetness that never failed, even when he didn't deserve it.

Coral, representing his desire for her. He had made love to her that last night, cherishing every delicate curve, every sigh of pleasure. If he had known what was to come, the gaping emptiness, he would never have ceased. He would still be loving her until this day, claiming her as his own forever. Every minute, she would be safe. Now, they are only together in the past.

Red, for his love. For she had taught him how to love, freely and completely. And she had loved him despite his flaws, always forgiving, always trusting. She would always have his heart. For eternity, it belongs to her.

Yes, he has learned to love another. She has cerulean eyes with crystalline flecks of grey, too. A laugh that can light up the darkest day, and she can smile in that extraordinarily familiar way. She is the outcome of their adoration, a living, breathing memory of the woman he loves more than life itself. She is every bit her mother's daughter, precocious and tenacious, and he is utterly in love with her.

"Can I do one, Daddy?" He hands her a red rose, and she brings the flower to her face as if to sniff its sweet perfume, but instead, places a kiss on the closest petal. She links her fingers in his, tiny palm lost in knitted glove, and gently places the rose with the others on the frozen surface of the lake.

He bends down to her level, jeans soaking up moisture from the snow, but he doesn't care. "Do you remember what I told you."

She nods, curls bouncing on her shoulders. "That Mommy's an angel."

"From the day I first met her."

"Did she always have wings?" She flaps her arms in imitation of the heavenly features.

"No, but she does now." He is smiling in spite of the pain.

She links her hands in front of her, chin ducking into her coat. "I talk to her sometimes."

He always does. Every night, he whispers a prayer for her, and he imagines that she is beside him, wrapped safely in his arms. But she isn't. And she never will be again.

"I can hear her." Her voice is growing quieter, as if she is afraid of sharing some secret. Afraid that if she does, it will be no more.

He hears her, too, in his waking hours and in his dreams. But when he turns, she is never there. Only her picture on his nightstand remains.

"I see her, Daddy."

"I know." He closes his eyes to the image of her. Always. "Her pictures."

"No, I said Mommy… and she answered me."

He takes her trembling hands in his, pressing them to his cheek. "You were dreaming, sweetie. Mommy isn't here."

"She was! She was!" She stomps her foot, the child-like boot disrupting a pristine coating of snow. "She said, tell Daddy…" She hesitates.

He tilts his head, studying her. Her eyes are alight and serious, determined. "Tell me what?"

"I'll always be his Mary."