A/N: You have all probably read a million stories by now written by different authors about the end of the reboot. This is my take.
There's a Starman waiting in the sky,
He'd like to come and meet us,
But he thinks he'd blow our minds,
There's a Starman waiting in the sky,
He's told us not to blow it,
'Cause he knows it's all worth while.
David Bowie | Starman
All Worth While
Logan is hesitant when he picks up his phone in the middle of dinner and sees Rory's name flashing on his screen. He is seated with Odette and her parents at the most expensive restaurant in London. He cannot excuse himself from the table to talk to his ex-girlfriend. It would be rude. Not to mention stupid. They left each other on good terms.
That's a lie. He knows it. Deep in his God-forsaken soul, he knows it. They never leave each other on good terms. They never should have left each other in the first place. Bad things happen when they are apart.
These are the things Logan tells himself as he scrapes his chair back and stands, telling Odette he will be right back. It's a work call, he tells her. Nothing to worry about.
More lies. He has become so proficient at lying over the years.
He walks quickly outside of the stuffy building into the bitter autumn air. Wind rattles against his face in harsh bursts. Old leaves, brown and decayed, flutter around him. He ignores these distractions as he glances once more at his phone before answering the call.
"What's wrong?" he asks. Rory would not call unless something had happened. Something bad.
Silence meets his inquiry. Logan clenches his fist in frustration.
"Damn it, Rory, what's wrong?" he says again with more aggression than he had intended. He pauses, inhaling a breath of the cold air—it burns his lungs sweetly—and exhales slowly. "I'm sorry," he apologises. "Rory, I know something's wrong. Please, just tell me."
He is not a begging man. He was raised by Mitchum Huntzberger. Beggars have no place in this world, his father taught him that. If you want something—answers, a phone number, a girl, anything—you don't beg for it. You demand it.
But this is Rory Gilmore. Mitchum Huntzberger has no idea the hold she has on him. He would fall at her feet and whine like a pathetic, starving dog if it got him one more second with her.
"Logan," Rory hiccups. She is crying. This breaks his heart. Three thousand miles away, Rory Gilmore is crying and he can do nothing to help. "Logan, I have to tell you something."
Yes, he knows this. She called because she has something to tell him. Her cries are making him nervous, though. Tremors run through him like greasy snakes. His hair sets itself on-end. Something isn't just wrong, it's awful. Horrible. Unthinkable.
Has Lorelai passed? Emily? Has Rory just discovered she is dying and has mere months to live?
"Rory, what's happened?" There he goes, begging again. If Mitchum could see him now.
"This is going to ruin everything," she says, and he can practically see the tears as they slide down her pink cheeks. Taste the salt as they hit her lips. "If I tell you, everything will be ruined."
"For me, or for you?" he asks. He doesn't know why. It's a stupid question. But he's asked it now. There is no such thing as eating your words.
"For both of us," she admits, a whimper falling from her mouth.
He can hear it all the way in London.
"Rory," he breathes, his chest tightening. "Just tell me."
The suspense, he fears, is literally killing him.
"Logan, I'm pregnant."
. . .
Logan does not remember how he got back into the restaurant ("I'm coming back." "Logan, you can't." "You can't just tell me something like this and expect me to stay in London!" "You're getting married tomorrow." "I don't give a fuck what's happening tomorrow. You're pregnant with my child. I'm coming back. I'll get a flight first thing." "No, Logan." "I'll flap my fucking arms if it gets me there, Rory. Don't argue with me."), but an hour later he is being handed a cheque by a waiter dressed in an uncomfortable looking penguin suit.
Odette's father throws out his wrinkled hand in offering. Logan shakes his head. "I've got this," Logan says mindlessly. His misty eyes catch Odette watching him from across the table with a slight frown. She gets this small dent right above her nose when she's worried about him. He hates that he knows this about her.
"You're getting married tomorrow, young boy," Mr. Thomas says, his French accent hurting Logan's ears. "I insist."
Logan is in no mood to fight ("How long have you known?" "Logan, that's not the point." "Then what is the point? You tell me you're pregnant and think I'm just going to laze around in another country? I want some answers, Rory. I need answers." "You know, I don't think you've ever called me Rory so many times in a row."), so he hands the leather booklet to Mr. Thomas with a click of his tongue.
"Darling, what's on your mind?" Odette's cold hand—her hands are always so cold—closes around his fist. Her touch only makes him tense further.
"Nothing dear," he says, the words tasting like bitter acid as they bubble atop his tongue. "I'm fine."
"You are so taught," she observes. "You are not getting cold feet?"
Ha. He has had cold feet since he purchased the ring. Before that. Since he allowed his father to convince him that the only logical next step was marrying Odette Thomas. Cold feet has transformed into something so much more. Logan's entire body is frozen with fear over this marriage.
A marriage he knows with which he can no longer go through.
("Ace, tell me what you want from me." "Why do you think I want anything from you?" "Because you called me the night before my wedding to another girl to tell me you're pregnant." "Exactly. You're getting married tomorrow. You can't do anything." "Yes, I can. I can call the whole fucking thing off. I can get on a jet and come be with you." "What if I don't want you to be with me?" "Don't say that. You can't mean that." "Why can't I mean that?" "Because—because you just can't, Ace. We can't stay away from each other. It's always been like that." "Why can't I let go of you?")
How does he tell Odette? Her parents? His parents?
He doesn't. He gets on one of his private jets and heads to Connecticut, leaving nothing and everything behind.
But this is the coward's way out. Once, Logan may have been cowardly, but that has changed over the years. That changed the moment he met Rory. He has to tell them all. He has to tell them everything.
. . .
Odette is the first person he sits down. She slaps him. It is with her left hand, and the ring he got her does not fit. It spins around her bony finger and slides across his face. Blood trickles down his cheek.
"When?" she spits. "When did it start?"
At first, he does not respond. He is too shocked by her physical attack. But then she raises her hand once again, and he spills his secrets. "Almost two years ago. She was in London for work. We ran into each other."
It is a simple explanation for something that is so much more complex.
He will not tell Odette that when he saw her standing in Trafalgar Square his heart rattled so violently in his chest he felt he would pass out. He will not tell Odette that when he walked over to her, his entire body shaking, he felt as if he were coming home after having been away for eons. He will not tell Odette that when she opened her mouth and spoke to him he came alive for the first time since they parted ways nearly ten years prior.
He will also not tell his heartbroken fiancée that he can still see her writhing body from that night as it moved atop his. Nor will he tell her that he knew the moment he finished inside of her he would never again be able to let go.
"And this is the girl you were seeing at school? The one who left you?" She is trying to make sense of this situation. She shouldn't. It is one of those things that will never make any sense.
"Yes," he says.
Oh, if he had only known when he ran into her that first time that this would be the result. Would he have stayed away, knowing all he did now? Would he have moved past her, secured his defences even tighter?
Playing this game never works. He knows he would not change anything. Rory has become a part of him. There is no longer a before. No longer any choice. Rory is the answer to every question known to mankind.
"You love her," Odette says. There is no upward tilt of her voice. She states a fact.
Logan can only nod.
"More than me?"
Oh, Odette, he thinks sadly.
"More than the sun."
. . .
He has never seen Mitchum's face grow so red.
"You idiot!" he shouts, but the words do not hurt Logan in the slightest. "You're a fucking idiot, Logan Huntzberger. Do you hear me?"
"Yes, father. I think all of London can hear you." He can never resist when he is speaking with Mitchum.
Miraculously, Mitchum's skin goes purple. "You think you can make jokes at a time like this? You knock some bitch up, humiliate Odette and her family, not to mention our family, and you make jokes?"
"Hey!" Logan has a bark too, and a pretty ferocious bite. "You dare call Rory a bitch again and I swear to God, Mitchum, I will not hesitate to punch you in your smug face." Logan is fuming. Panting like the dog he is. Rivulets of steam flow from his nostrils. "I love her, Dad. I have since we were at Yale together. Odette was just some excuse for a rebound. A rebound you somehow convinced me I needed to marry. The wedding's off. I'm going to Connecticut as soon as possible to be with Rory."
("I'm coming. Stop trying to fight me on it, Ace." "But Odette . . ." "Don't—don't say her name, please. She's nothing. You know she's nothing. Ace, you're everything. And now this baby is too.")
"What if she's saying all of this for publicity?"
Logan's entire body tenses. His face contorts. "What?" he splutters.
"You know, for that book of hers that's coming out soon."
He has to get out of there. Mitchum is a slow-moving toxin that has been poisoning Logan since the day he was brought into this repulsive world.
"Where do you think you're going? We're not done here!" Mitchum calls.
"I'm not a kid anymore, Dad," he says as he exits. "You can't tell me what to do."
He bursts outside. The night has stretched on without his realising. Stars twinkle above him, and it is an odd comfort knowing Rory is somewhere beneath the same sky.
("I always knew you were going to turn my life upside down." "That's not what I'm trying to do here, Logan. I didn't tell you out of spite." "Why did you, then? I've been trying to work that out. Why now?" "You were right. I knew you were getting married in the morning and I started to panic. I thought not telling you was the grown up thing to do. I know I was wrong. My mom would be proud of me." "Does she know the baby's mine?" "Yeah, I told her it was you. She said I should call you immediately, but I didn't listen. I'm sorry for not listening." "Ace, don't cry.")
. . .
Colin and Finn are sharing a room at the hotel where the wedding is meant to be taking place in twelve hours. They both answer the door. Finn is holding a cricket bat.
"Logan?" they say in unison, stepping to the side and allowing the blond-headed mass of nerves inside.
He tells them when they have shut the door. They knew of the affair, but news of the pregnancy leaves their jaws unhinged.
"Is she okay?" Finn asks. He has always had a soft spot for Rory.
"Yes. No," Logan stumbles. He drags a hand over his face. Truthfully, he has no clue. He won't until he touches down in Stars Hollow.
Colin says, "So the wedding's off?"
Logan does not satisfy the question with an answer. The wedding was off before it was ever planned.
"Would you like us to come with you?" Finn offers. "I have missed dear Stars Hollow."
"Thanks, guys," Logan says, "but it's just going to be me."
Just him, and Rory, and their child.
. . .
The first thing he notices as he steps from his cab and onto the Gilmore's property is how much warmer it is here than in London. He feels suffocated in his heavy coat. The cabby exits the vehicle and helps bring his suitcases up to the front porch. It is almost nine in the morning on a Saturday and the house is fast asleep.
"How long were you away?" the cabby asks. He is carrying the last of four suitcases.
It is a cliche, but Logan cannot resist. "Too long."
He pays the cab driver and searches beneath the potted plants lined outside the door for the spare key Rory said she was going to leave. His fingers are shaking as he lifts the third pot, disappointment surging through him when he sees no key. He is about to move on to the next one when he hears the door unlocking. Straightening immediately, a thick, serrated cotton ball lodged in his throat, Logan watches the door swing open.
Luke Danes steps over the threshold. Dressed in jeans and a plaid button-down, he stops just short of reaching Logan. This man has never liked him. He has slowly become Rory's father over the years, and Logan can only imagine how sorely he dislikes him now.
But he's there, isn't he? He dropped his pseudo life in London to be with Rory. That has to count for something.
"Logan." Luke's voice is gruff. Protective.
Logan holds out a quaking arm. He blinks harshly, hoping to gather himself. "Sir." He feels suddenly 16 again. Memories of Lisa Rainer's father barging inside her room, finding Logan half-naked beneath the bed, flood his brain.
Luke must be in a forgiving mood. He takes Logan's proffered hand and pumps once, squeezing hard. When he lets go, Logan discreetly flexes his fingers and squints from the pain.
Pointing at the suitcases beside the anxious boy, Luke asks, "Is this all your stuff?"
"Yes, sir."
Luke nods. He turns around and walks back inside the house. Heart jackhammering so forcefully he fears it could crack his ribs, Logan trails behind. The house has not changed one bit. Paul Anka, wearing a striped baseball shirt and a whistle around his scruffy neck, approaches him cautiously. He sniffs Logan's legs before retreating.
The house is quiet except for the sound of Paul Anka lapping at his water bowl, and Logan can hear his pulse thrashing in his ears. Luke is busy in the kitchen. Pots and pans clink and clang. He is probably concocting some fatal potion to feed Logan. Get him out of the way before Rory knows he is here.
"She's in her room," Luke says, still in the kitchen.
It is safe, then. He steps cautiously in the direction of Rory's childhood bedroom, blood surging in his veins. His entire body is covered in a sweaty gloss.
Months have passed since they saw each other last. Winter is creeping around the corner. But he remembers Rory's warmth, and it is enough to push him inside her room. She is dozing atop her sheets, headphones plugged into her ears. She must have fallen asleep listening to something. He closes the door and approaches the sleeping beauty, noticing something on her belly. She has placed headphones—large ones—around her stomach.
The baby. Rory is playing music for the baby. Their baby. Part of the reason he is there, finally, after far too many days away.
Carefully, Logan pulls the earphones from Rory's ears. She nuzzles her nose against her pillow, her body trying to drag itself back to sleep. But he has been waiting to see her. Sleep can stake its claim on her later. For now, she is his.
"Rory," he whispers, bent low enough that his lips brush the wisps of hair that have come loose from her ponytail.
Sleepily, her eyes open. Logan's heart stops. His lungs constrict. Looking into those blue eyes, his world falls apart. A slow smile separates her lips and pins them to the side. She quivers as water droplets spill from her tear ducts. In one motion, Rory has leapt upwards and thrown her arms around him. He is knocked back slightly by her force. The headphones clatter to the floor, forgotten.
She squeezes him tight, awakening him. She has always been so good at doing that.
Something is pressing into his stomach. Something hard. Solid. He pulls away, resting his glistening forehead against Rory's, his own cheeks stained with tears. He laughs, brushing the wetness from her chin with his thumbs.
"You're showing," he says, peering down at where her belly rests against his. This is real. Not some crazed dream his mind has given him on the eve of his wedding to a girl he could never love. This is Rory Gilmore standing before him, their child growing inside of her.
Rory steps back and rubs her stomach. She grins at him, her reddened eyes pooling like an ocean. "Just a little."
Because he cannot help himself—because he does not want to help himself—Logan rests his hands either side of Rory's swollen face. He inclines his neck, turning his head to the side, and kisses her deeply. Their mouths collide like they have so many times before.
He holds her there for a second before letting go. They extract themselves from one another, a heaviness in the air. They have much to discuss.
Rory tugs on her oversized sweater, a blue sweater he has never seen before that pulls at the multitude of colours in her eyes, and bites her lip. She is nervous. He is too. "I tried to stay awake. I wanted to wait for you."
"I'm glad you slept," he insists. "I don't know much, but I know sleep is always good."
She steps forward. With the pad of her thumb, she strokes beneath his eyes. "You don't look like you've slept," she observes softly. Her touch is beginning to make his head loll.
Brain whirring, Logan's eyelids bat slowly. He holds Rory's wrist as she continues her steady caress. "I couldn't."
"Could you now?"
"Sleep?"
"Yeah."
"Not a chance in hell."
Rory giggles. It is the sweetest sound on earth. "Not even if I play you David Bowie?"
"Is that what you were listening to when you fell asleep?" Was it the music she was playing for the baby?
"Mhm," she confirms. "Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders From Mars."
Logan's vision is beginning to blur once more. Perhaps the sleepiness is to blame for his weeping, or the emotional onslaught that has exploded over him since he decided to answer a call from Rory Gilmore while at dinner. Or, perhaps it is simply happiness.
He will go with that. Happiness.
Mitchum, if he were there, would not believe his tired old eyes.
"That's a good album," he says.
Rory bobs her head in agreement, and together they laugh like no time has passed. Like they are still at Yale, unaware that their lives are to be turned inside out ten years in the future. Like they have all of the time in the world to be young and reckless.
And Logan stands there with Rory—his Ace, the love of his goddamned life, the person he will always come back to time and time again—a flutter of excitement brushing the insides of his belly. This was hardly the plan he had envisioned for himself and Rory Gilmore, but he will take it. He will take it and run with it like there was never any doubt this is where he belongs.