Author's Note: A decade ago, I bore a username synonymous with this one. I couldn't write, but I loved to read fanfiction. I grew up, read less fanfic and still can't write. I'll always love Gilmore Girls and Rory & Jess.
My prose versus dialogue is entirely uneven per section, I couldn't settle on how descriptive to get, and in truth, I imagine this couple probably reunited way sooner than 8 years after the series ended.
But, I felt compelled to have my way out there before ASP potentially revealed her imagined ending at the ATX reunion.
The dates all correspond to real events-the Iowa caucus (2007), the campaign in Hartford (2008), the release of Twitter and MJ's death (2009), the year after the Blagojevich scandal and during the Thai riots (2010), the Arab spring (2011), the re-election (2012), the marathon bombing (2013), Rory's 30th birthday (2014), BookCon in New York (2015).
I still have never read Great Expectations, despite referencing it here and my only other fic. I want to read The Subsect.
Disclaimer: Gilmore Girls is the property of Amy Sherman-Palladino, Dorothy Drank Here Productions, and the WB/CW... and now, Netflix.
Work In Progress
December 2007
He's scratched off so many sentences of his latest chapter he's damn near rewritten the entire thing exclusively in marginalia.
With one last emphatic strikethrough (what was he thinking?), he finally looks up from the pages for the first time in hours. His eyes fall to the TV he left on for background noise... and that's when he sees her.
It's a month before the Iowa caucus, the Senator is at the podium, the crowd behind him huge, but he spots her immediately.
He realizes this is the longest he's gone without seeing her since they've met.
For six full seconds, he sees her in action, pen in hand, press badge around her neck.
He's never felt this proud of anyone before in his life.
June 2008
There's no use calling the diner after 9; Luke's been living with Lorelai for over a year now.
He's had no trouble making small pleasantries with Lorelai the few times he has called Luke at the house, but this voice he wasn't expecting.
With the Senator's nomination recently clinched, he figured she'd be busier than ever. He hadn't realized the campaign was in Hartford now, and so he tells himself it was more surprise than nerves that causes his heart to race momentarily when he heard her voice on the other side of the line.
He's calmed when her tone is casual, almost delighted.
The campaign trail is hard, she says. She's never been so tired before in her life, she says. She misses home, she misses her mom, sometimes she wonders why she doesn't just quit.
But he can hear the fervor in her voice when she talks about writing and any doubts he's ever had about journalism being too rough for her are instantly abated.
When he reveals he's been following her blog online, she scolds him for not keeping in touch.
After they hang up, he briefly considers emailing her the entire first draft of his latest piece right then, desperate to know what she thinks. He ends up sending a short but heartfelt congratulations on her coverage of Election Night a few weeks later instead.
July 2009
For a guy who took years to get a cell phone, it's a real fight for him to get behind the idea at first. But success in the publishing business is as much about publicity as it is good material, and he tells himself being against using social media isn't so much as a belief system as a way to stall his career.
Promoting events at Truncheon in 140 characters is easy for someone who frequently uses fewer in his spoken sentences.
She finds him within the first week. When he adds her back, he finds links to her whole portfolio over the past 9 months, along with some other comments on current events.
When she responds to his re-tweet of her link of that little kid singing at Jackson's funeral, he's relieved she safely sticks to their mutual sadness over the loss of the King of Pop, rather than the content of that song.
March 2010
"Of all the editorial conventions in the world, she had to walk into mine" and despite it being over a year since she's heard his voice, he can tell by the way her shoulders drop when she hears it that she knows who it is instantly.
"Hey now," she tries to defend, as she turns around to face him, "I believe I was into this whole writing thing first."
Her bangs have grown out again and with the smirk she wears as she prepares for their encounter, she almost looks like the girl he met years ago, despite over 8 years passing.
"In fact," she grins, "I seem to recall you promising me you'd help me practice to get here."
Over a few drinks at the open bar, he explains Truncheon is trying to break into the online 'zine business.
"I was pretty against it at first. But then I figured if it worked for McSweeney's, maybe it wasn't the worst idea... not that I'm comparing myself to Eggers."
"Oh please. That short story you wrote a few months ago about the skaterboys? Way better than anything in Small Box."
He remembers how he'd hesitated opening her email immediately after it had been published. He knew it was one of his better pieces, was anxious to hear what she thought... but since the plot had been largely inspired by his time in California, he didn't know if she'd be as delighted to read this story as she had many of his others over the past year.
When he asks about her next plans, he knows the answer before the words even leave her lips; she's leaving.
"That's actually why I am here," she informs him. "I got some good feedback on this story I wrote last year about the Blagojevich scandal."
He'd read it. She knew that, of course.
"I actually received pretty cool offers back then to be on staff. But I was happy doing freelance for awhile, keeping my options open while I worked on my voice. Plus, I couldn't even think about being far away, what with Mom and Luke and the new baby."
She pauses for a few seconds, and he wonders why she hesitates, before she finally spits it out.
"But the past few months I've been thinking ... It's time I make a change. So, this is kinda some last face-to-face networking before I leave... for Thailand. I'm covering the riots starting Monday. Time to see what it's like crawling in trenches."
Naturally, his hands find their way on the small of her back, as he orders them both another drink, this time celebratory.
And when she gets up to leave after her third martini, she initiates the kiss goodbye. It's long and sweet, maybe even a little bit sensual, and he is genuinely proud of himself for not needing more.
August 2011
He loses track of where in Northern Africa or the Middle East she is for awhile.
It's not intentional, really. Between edits in preparation for The Subsect to be re-released by one of the Big Four publishers and trying to finally get going on the next novel he promised them, he misses some of her pieces. Her feedback on his own work is equally sporadic.
He's not offended-she's super successful, always on the run, can barely get a few days off for this wedding... or so Luke tells him when he calls to invite him as well. Leave it to his uncle to choose the busiest time in his (and, apparently, Rory's) life to summon him up to Connecticut, after all these years.
By the time he gets to Stars Hollow, he barely has enough time to stop by to see Liz and his younger siblings before the wedding.
He interrupts her during the dessert part of the reception, while she's trying to prevent her toddler sister from smearing cake all over both their gowns.
She desperately throws her arms around him, and he almost falls over from her grasp.
Later, in the kitchen of the Dragonfly, heels off, free feet dangling from the counter, exposed, she confesses.
It's not that she doesn't love being an overseas correspondent. But covering the whirlwind of the Arab spring felt more like ducking for cover in between spitting out headlines than in-depth reporting. She hasn't written anything she's really proud of in months.
He sympathizes, tells her of his struggle to get his sophomore novel to a stage beyond a rough manuscript.
"It's your typical bildungsroman," he clarifies. "Nothing special. It's not exactly Great Expectations. Besides, I can't seem to work out a decent ending, or main plot for that matter, so I doubt I'll ever get to finish it, even though my future livelihood depends on it."
She raises her glass. "To works in progress," she gulps, "for both of us."
After they've topped off the champagne at the inn, he invites her to join for another drink above the diner. The rest of their conversation is enjoyable, the sex even more so, and when she gets up to leave afterward he's wordless for how he feels and he wonders how he could ever consider himself a writer.
October 2012
When the re-election campaign starts up, he briefly wonders if she'll come through town again, but then remembers she's got some desk job covering the campaign from the Chicago headquarters.
He's surprised to hear from her about a month before the election, about a week after his second book finally hits shelves.
She doesn't waste much time after he answers the phone. Her tone is filled with hurt.
"I suppose I should've expected a story inspired by your own life to somehow feature me in it..."
He acts confused at first, tries to explain he was always more inspired by great authors than he ever was his own life.
"Look, it's like I said. It's no Dickens, but really, did anyone make a better love interest than Estella? If anything, you should be shaming me about blatantly ripping her off!"
But when she just cries hard, he realizes what hadn't occurred to her:
She had once hurt him too.
"Bygones and bridges, really. I'm not suggesting we do the math or anything, but if we did, I'm pretty sure you'd end up way ahead. Surely you know about literary license. That's what it was. And you and me-it is what it is."
"And what is it, Jess?" she shoots. "You always say that, like I've ever had any idea what the hell you were ever thinking about me."
He tries to reassure her that they're friends-good friends after all these years, but when she makes an excuse to hang up the phone a few minutes later, he's not sure he's convinced her.
April 2013
He hasn't even been following her online blog or Twitter feeds lately.
At first he figured the physical distance between Philly and DC would be enough, but when she didn't reply to any of his emails for weeks, he felt like even reading her work was an intrusion she wouldn't appreciate.
But somehow he just knows-she's up there.
The morning they shut down all of Boston during the manhunt, he can't help himself and he texts her the first private communication they've had in months. "Please. Be careful."
Her reply is even shorter, simply, "Thanks."
The next part comes through a few minutes later. "Miss you."
October 2014
Newly settled into his New York apartment, he embraces his new city as encouragement for new material, or at least, a re-write of the past.
He's spent the better part of the past two years-no, the better part of nearly a decade-writing this sequel.
The previous novel never got the ending he wanted, if he could even call it that. Pressured by his new publisher, they'd printed it with a sloppy cliffhanger he threw together.
When the third week of October rolls around, he is reminded of the date and wonders what she's doing for her thirtieth birthday.
He's struggled with approaching an apology in every sparse exchange they've had for the past year and a half, so instead he's just avoided the subject all together.
No words could convey how he feels better than what's in this manuscript, so he attaches a small card that says, "This is what it is, to me. Happy Birthday." and nothing more.
May 2015
He's just finished loading his very few unsold copies back into boxes when she approaches.
"I always thought we'd meet again in a coffee shop," she says. "I guess you did too."
"This is the Javits Center," he retorts.
"Either way," she asserts, "it certainly beats a reunion in some old lady's abandoned mansion a decade later."
Feeling brave, he add, "Well you know how I feel about writing original work, about writing it how it really is, or at least... how I'd like it to be."
Meeting his eyes, she affirms. "I do know."
Serious now, he asks, "What are you doing here?"
"It seemed pretty necessary to become a New Yorker to write for The New Yorker, don't you think?"
He beams back at her when she adds, "And I was in the mood for some coffee. It is what it is, right?"
His signature hand is completely cramped from earlier, but he finds it easy to squeeze hers when she places her palm against his.
"The problem with works in progress is," she tells him as they head toward the door together, "sometimes you have to write the ending already."