Wishful Thinking

Author's Note: I wrote this to distract myself from a really devastating event, never finished it, then came back and couldn't think of any more to add! Oddly enough, it seems to have left off at a nice ending place, so hopefully it's a worthwhile read. As for the title, I feel like all of my fic should be entitled "Wishful Thinking," because...if it happened in the episode, why would I write about it? This one doesn't want to give itself a name, though, so we'll just call it "Wishful Thinking" and it'll grin smugly at me when other fics have to be "Wishful Thinking 2" and "Wishful Thinking, Again." (No, I'm not sane; I write fanfic for Pete's sake! ...why do you ask?)

Her dress is perhaps shorter than the weather warrants, and she hugs her stomach, shivering. She can feel the goose bumps traveling a very long way up her legs, as far as the sheer hemline of the green "something" that her grandmother bought for the occasion. She is grateful that she shaved just the day before, as every hair would otherwise be standing on end. On the other hand, having hair might imply a layer of warmth.

She wishes she were a cat.

He thinks she looks like a cat, collected into herself and bent stubbornly against the cold. She's beautiful, stunning. This event is for Richard and Emily Gilmore--and heaven knows why he was invited, other than perhaps for match-making purposes--but he finds himself thinking that she absolutely steals the show. He growls internally, rips his eyes from her--and tightens his grip on the shoulder of the girl next to him.
She slides into place near the altar and surreptitiously sticks her tongue out at her mother, who is floating elegantly down the aisle. Lorelai throws a mischievous wink back. Luke catches the wink; Logan sees the tongue. Both men are uncomfortably warm, instantly.
When Rory agreed to be a sort of junior (was she too old to be a "junior?") bridesmaid--kind of-maybe-not really--Emily Gilmore had promised that the vow renewal was going to be a small, quiet affair. Rory should have known better. "Emily Gilmore" had never been synonymous with "small" and "quiet."

As it was, Rory's grandmother had chosen to invite the better portion--or at least the more influential portion--of high society, to lay the rumors about her separation from Richard to rest. Emily had also chosen to make the ceremony long and tedious; Rory wasn't sure if this was revenge or simply the way Emily Gilmore was.

Now, she is standing still, listening to the minister drone on about Richard and Emily's true and abiding love, and she can feel herself swaying on her knees. She attempts to bend them unobtrusively and find there is no way to do so and remain ladylike in the green Thing that she has on. She wonders again at her grandmother's taste in dresses.

To distract herself, she lets her eyes wander over the congregation. Most are stern men in business suits with their shrewd, powerful wives, no one she knows. She searches out Luke, who is hidden somewhere toward the back where he can make sardonic faces at Lorelai and attempt to break her Buckingham Palace demeanor.

In other circumstances, Luke would be interesting enough to keep Rory Gilmore from collapsing in front of God and Society, but as it is, he's begun some sort of eye contact with her mother that's as exclusive as it is mushy. Rory's gaze roams elsewhere, seeking something to engage her mind as well as her eye contact. Subconsciously, she thinks that he might be here; consciously, she examines the stained glass, the ceiling, and the drapes in the back.

--and he is here, she notices consciously as she brings her attention back to the congregation. Five rows back on the right-hand side, Logan Huntzberger sits and smirks equivocally at the congregation and the wedding--or not-wedding--party. Rory grins a little, thinking perhaps he will amuse her for the course of this interminable lecture and the equally interminable vows to follow. She's not feeling particularly romantic or wedding-y at the moment, and she wagers that Logan isn't either.

He catches her eye and then bends to the person next to him. Rory finds her smile falling off completely; he is whispering in the ear of a mahogany-haired beauty...and his arm is firmly around her.

The beauty laughs silently, and Logan glances up at Rory again. Rory's cheeks are immediately flushed. He shrugs at her and gives a small wave, then turns his attention back to his companion. Rory fixes her eyes on Luke firmly and fights to stay awake as the minister continues.

She misses the look Logan turns on her a few minutes later--warm, and willing to give her a thousand thousand cups of coffee. Eight cups a day for the rest of her life.

Rory changes into slightly less dressy, more weather-appropriate clothing in a Sunday school room with tiny blue chairs and rainbows and clumsy posters tacked to the chair rail bearing "Jesus Loves Me." And then she curls up next to the water fountains in the hall, hoping to hide for a little while. She had stuffed John Donne into her purse that morning, the first thing off her desk at her old house in her old life. It is unfortunately a paperback and an incomplete copy, but she makes her way through several meditations and half the Holy Sonnets before a polite cough interrupts her. She curses under her breath before remembering she is technically in a church.

When she glances up at the intruder, it is not some society lady--or worse yet, her grandmother--come to lecture her on the propriety of avoiding the wedding guests and sitting on the floor in a skirt. It's Logan. She realizes she's been hoping he would interrupt her, and a sudden fit of anger flares up inside her.

"Well, Ace, when I caught you sniffing the first time, I thought you were letting loose a little, but you seem to have a real problem here." His hands are stuffed in the pockets of his impeccably pressed khakis, and he is absolutely gorgeous. He is also taken.

So she lashes out with the weapon pressed into her hands, a vain attempt to make it hurt a little less. She's not quite so stupid as to not understand why seeing him hurts, but she doesn't want to think about it. She wants revenge.

"Shouldn't you be off with that latest model of yours?" It isn't as effective a weapon as she expects it to be.

"Annetta?"

"Whoever. The next tally for the...wherever you keep your tallies."

For an instant, he looks wounded, but he's too well-bred to rise to the bait. "You don't like her," he answers, and smirks. She can't even deny it. "What did she do to you? Offend that precious roommate of yours? I hate to break it to you, Ace, but Paris had it coming."

"No," Rory spits back, annoyed. "I just have a problem with anyone dumber than, say, any boy band fangirl, especially when they're sluttier, too."

Logan considers this for a second with high good humor. The silence stretches. He crouches down to her level and resumes quietly, jokingly, "Anyone might think you don't want her to be with me."

"I don't," Rory snaps, before realizing what has just come out of her mouth.

Logan lets the impact of her words put her on edge before replying. "Oh no, Ace? Why not?" He is not going to take this as a good sign. He is...dammit, this is a good sign and he's about to click his heels together and do a Peter Pan crow because he's falling hard and now she's falling with him.

The book slides from Rory's grasp and she leans forward to hiss at him, "I. already. told you why."

Logan's mood changes abruptly. He was never good at the being patient thing. "I'm afraid that's not a good enough answer, Ace," he replies. "My choice in girls is none of your business." He stands up.

Rory stands up with him, still pressed against the wall and the water fountains. He makes some absurd sort of bow, then says, "See you later, Ace. As you said, I have a woman to attend to."

Rory narrows her eyes and hisses through her teeth. She grabs his hand as he is turning and manages, "This reason, too." And then she is kissing him--angrily, impatiently, thoroughly--and they are both falling inside and Rory is thinking maybe she does want to cut in that line Stephanie mentioned. Maybe just a little.

She pulls away from him and tries to melt through the wall. His eyes are distant for a second, and then he grins at her, a genuine little boy smile. "Okay," he says. "I can see the appeal of that reason." She just blinks at him.

He reaches again for her hand and squeezes it, runs his thumb over the side of her thumb. He turns away, calling over his shoulder, "I'll be back in a minute, Ace. Don't go anywhere." He is so sure of himself that she wants to laugh. Because she sure as hell won't be that submissive, and he knows it.

"It better be a quick minute, Huntzberger, because as soon as you get out of sight I'm heading out."

He turns back, raises an eyebrow. "Oh-ho?"

"Yeah."

His eyes are soft, she finds herself thinking. "I'll find you, then, Ace. I'll look for you."

She nods. "Okay. I think I can live with that."

He smirks again. "Thought you could."