a/n: i don't really even know what this is other than the creative byproduct of studying like crazy for a chemistry test and listening to too much of matt nathanson's new album while i do it. inspiration and title taken from his song "Bill Murray." i miss this show, i ship everything, and it might not be in-character. i don't know, i just hope it brings them into the present. this is strictly post-series and breaks the fourth wall. if you read and let me know what you think either way, though, i will at least nicely say thank you. eventually. either way thank you for reading and thank you twice if you review.

disclaimer: i own nothing, except apparently said chemistry test. if anyone wants it, you're welcome to it.

i won't only love you when you're winning

It's natural enough to think of him when she's standing at her grandfather's memorial, she thinks. He and Luke were the two key supports holding her and her mother up following the heart attack that started them all toward this inevitable conclusion. The difference is Luke is here now and he's not. Her mother and grandmother are oddly unified and Luke has his hands full trying to be their support system.

Rory stands alone.

She hadn't allowed herself to think of this possibility, which was stupid and short-sighted. She's been on her own for six years now, traveled a little and written a lot. She graduated from Yale with honors and her education continued. It's been more brutal and exhilarating than she could have planned. She's a little more used to going it alone now. She's always been and will always be close to her mother, but it's no longer the kind of close where being there requires sitting on the same couch. It's all evolved, grown up with the both of them, and she thinks maybe at some point in the growing up, she should have considered the possibilities that are quickly becoming realities. She's seen enough to know how the world works, understands a little better how life works, and sometimes she wishes that knowledge would've come a little sooner.

Jess came, but he's gone now. That's kind of how it's always been with him, she knows. It isn't that he can't stay, it's that he doesn't necessarily want to stay. He wants her to go with. They've never wanted exactly the same things at exactly the same time and that's still true. He wants her to open up to him, to let him be her advisor and confidante. She doesn't want that. She's not a teenage girl anymore and his awkwardness, his quirks, aren't an attractive puzzle anymore. They're just a puzzle she doesn't have time to piece together. The bottom line is she's always cared about him but she's never quite loved him the way he loved her or the way he wanted her to. She's never been enough for him and he's never been quite enough for her, mostly because of circumstance, but since he left Stars Hollow a lifetime ago, it's always been the case. She's pretty sure it'll always be the case. They're a nice memory and occasional friends, always a match with the potential to light but not enough spark or friction to manage a sustainable flame.

It's kind of nice once the formal parts are over and the repast has begun. Rather than a formal, sit-down dinner, it's more of a mingling at her grandmother's house. Her grandmother is hands down the most formal person in the room, and the memorial and time together afterward was planned largely by Rory and partly by the ladies Emily has always worked with from the DAR. While Rory has been off exploring the world and building a career, these ladies have remained in the same place doing the same things. While she's glad she isn't really one of them anymore, it's been nice things haven't changed so much she couldn't work with them to get this arranged. Her mom, her grandma, Luke… they have enough on their plates. Rory's grief has always been more subtle than the other Gilmore girls', and crying it out isn't necessarily how she wants to handle this. She left the outward emotions to them, threw herself into event planning, and somehow managed to keep up with some freelance work she'd contracted to do. The last week has been busy and this is really the first chance she's had to think constructively.

When she grieves for Richard, it'll be with a good book, some strong Scotch, and a cigar burning somewhere in the room. She refuses to smoke it and doesn't want to be near the secondhand smoke, but she wants the smells and the reading to come together and make her think of her grandpa, sitting in his leather chair with a fire roaring, and his favorite things close by. Oh – and records. She'll need a steady supply, but not the ones he would start singing along to. Not yet because the silence where his voice should be would overcome the moment she wants to set up. They didn't do it often together, exactly, but that's how she knows he liked to end the day. It's how she wants to remember him.

There was a reception line, naturally, and she's been on her feet for the better part of two days. She's shaken hands, accepted the occasional hug, and accepted condolences with inborne grace. It's not unreasonable to think she's somehow touched all the people in her grandmother's meticulous address book at some point, and yet she doesn't feel comforted. Her grandfather was beloved by many, but none of them were his granddaughter. None of them saw all the sides of him she did. Even her mother didn't. She wouldn't dare rank the hole in her life alongside her grandmother's or her mother's, but it's huge and it's real. The shape is different, but that doesn't change its size. No one seems to understand and although she's made a career out of finding the best words for any situation, she's running a little short on them just now. She's never been that great with emotional things because they don't fit into a pro/con column. They aren't black and white. They fall into that hole like it's a bottomless pit.

Paris sent flowers and attached Doyle's name to them as well. Rory has no idea where they are, hasn't for a while, but it was thoughtful and she knows her grandmother will eventually send a 'thank you' note, just like all the others she'll get around to in the proper amount of time. Rory isn't worried about it and isn't sure how to convey thanks. She wishes Paris was here, even if it was for a distraction. She's trying too hard not to be ungrateful that a major part of her life is falling apart and all she's gotten from someone who was her closest… friend… is flowers. Lane wasn't here today because twins with strep throat really do trump dead grandpa, but Lane has made herself available as much as possible. Rory knows what to say to Lane. Plus Lane tried to send Zach in her stead and, as much as Rory respects the family her best friend has going, Zach's fumbling attempts to help would just be irritating. He doesn't know how to help. Kind of like her dad, who tried but things have remained awkward since the divorce and will probably always be just a little off. He sent flowers and he called, which is more than she's ever really expected from him. The good news is it's been a long time since she was disappointed under those guidelines and that holds true today.

So she's standing next to the liquor cart in the living room, holding a glass of can't-remember-what, wishing someone knew what to do. That's when she thinks of him and it's really not ideal. He knew exactly what to do when her grandfather was in the hospital, knew all the little things that made her feel like she wasn't in it, or life, alone. His parents have come and gone and she avoided them as much as possible. For as quiet as their ancient breakup was, as private as she tried to keep things, speculation abounded for several years afterward and she knows Shira did nothing to combat it. Instead, she played it up and enjoyed the attention that came from her only son being 'jilted and heartbroken.' The particular details matter to no one because that's how the upper echelons of society work. Even years later, she can't bring herself to greet them with decorum. Her grandfather admitted to her once, when he drove out to see her during her days on the Barack Obama campaign trail, that he'd never fully get over the way Mitchum Huntzberger had treated her and he wanted to 'perpetrate an act of violence against that second-rate charlatan.' Although that was the last conversation they'd had about the Huntzbergers directly, she doesn't think he'd want them here. She knows she doesn't want them here, so she made an excuse about powdering her nose.

There was one other conversation she and Richard had, though, not too long after the heart attack that lead to his heart finally giving up the good fight. It wasn't directly about any one person, other than Emily, but it's something she can't exactly forget. She's remembering conversations, moments she and Richard shared, and she hopes she remembers them all forever because it's all she has left of him. She needs to start writing them down. In fact, she's done just that. The leather bound journal just isn't handy right now, stored in her purse in the bedroom she's been staying in. She starts looking for somewhere to set her glass, mostly unconsumed because she's been smelling it for its olfactory-to-memory stimulation.

It's easy to forget what she's doing, though, when she sees him come through the doorway. She's standing at just the right angle that she can see him but he can't see her because there's a wall in the way.

Richard was clearly a little flustered with Emily's overbearing attention to his comfort that day – to the point she was swinging it the other way toward discomfort. As soon as she'd left, ushered out by Lorelai who proclaimed food was a necessity and not a suggestion, Rory had asked her grandfather how he managed to avoid ripping Emily's head off. He gave her a slow smile and said 'Because she knows me best. You only get one, and she's mine. Likewise, I know her best and I know this is how she's coping. Everything else is temporary, as is everyone else.'

It's something she's thought about a lot more than she's willing to admit, and she's never told anyone else about the conversation. She alluded to it with Luke once, right after he and her mom had gotten married at the county clerk's office, but didn't tell him where the sentiment had come from.

She's dated here and there. She hasn't kept up with if he has as well, because his moving to California meant he fell off the social map in Hartford. Her grandmother probably would've relayed something big, like an engagement announcement, but she's heard nothing beyond the fact he's become an uncle twice over. That's more about Honor and Josh than about him anyway. He isn't working in publishing, so she hasn't heard anything about him professionally, either.

He looks well, but that's no indication of anything. Other than when he was lying near-dead in a hospital bed after the failed stunt in Costa Rica, he's always looked good. And despite the non-stop flow of thoughts, of sadness, of everything – she knows she looks fine. Therefore, looks aren't always an indication. One can always put themselves together, and she's reasonably sure Emily would have something to say about it if she didn't.

"Miss?"

The tentative voice gets her attention, steals it from stealing glances at him. The catering staff is out of salmon puffs. She doesn't know how she's supposed to fix this, because she can't just make them materialize, but she does head back to the kitchen to figure out what else they (Sookie) can use as a substitute.

She catches his eye as she goes. It feels like someone stabs her at first, because it's been so long. She went from talking, texting, seeing him every single day to complete radio silence. It wasn't the easiest transition and she used to have so many questions for him, but now none of that matters and she has to go see a man about some appetizers. She knows she should greet him, too, like she has everyone else. Actually, he's carrying a small gift bag that makes her equal parts terrified and curious all at once. She doesn't know what to do with that and the stabbing, so she just follows the caterer's server, and gives him a small upturn of lips that could be a smile as she goes. She doesn't know what the half-smile is, exactly. Is it a finger in the air, a request for pause, the promise of something more if he'll just wait? He's never been that patient and she's never been certain enough of anything that wasn't a career goal to make real promises. Is it a greeting? She's not happy to see him because that would be too simple. The stab, the way she lost her breath for just a second, that was more like relief and guilt for feeling relief all at once.

She's not sure what it was, what it is, or what it'll be.

In the last six years, she's grown a little weary of uncertainty. Apparently I guess this is growing up was an accurate summary, even if she never completely understood the appeal of Blink-182. Their words aren't any more comfortable now than they've ever been, it's just now the context is different and a little more stabby.

Once the catering crisis is sorted out, following a skilled and resourceful swap-out she probably learned from her mom, she realizes her safety drink is gone, along with at least half of the people who had been present when she went back into the kitchen. Her mom's gone upstairs with her grandmother, she learns from Luke. Emily needs sleep and Lorelai may have slipped her some Xanax earlier to facilitate the process. Luke, despite his strong moral stance against, seems a little amused at least as he relays the information, then admits he needs to step out for some air while he has the opportunity.

She goes in search of Logan under the guise of cleaning up. Her mother plain doesn't care about the napkins or cups left here and there, probably doesn't notice, and Emily will eviscerate a few staff members if she sees, so Rory goes about cleaning up because it's something she can do and a way to search without it being obvious.

She finds him on the back patio, looking at the pool house. It's no longer full of supplies like it had been when they had lost their opportunity to spend time together there. It doesn't look the same on the inside either, but she understands a little the need to stare and possibly reminisce. The things they made hard back then ended up not mattering in the end.

In the end, it wasn't complicated, it was simple, reduced to yes or no, can and can't. It was all push and pull with them right up until the end, when nothing mattered. It was all pull, all come apart, and done faster than his average business deal.

She has to clear her throat before she can say anything. "Hey. What are you doing here?"

He doesn't turn around because he probably knew she was there all along.

"Hey," he says, his voice low but easy. "Well … I should probably say I was well brought-up and it was the polite thing to do. Richard was a great man and I'm sorry for your loss."

"He was. Thank you," she says simply. It's all forced formality and it hurts more than seeing him across the room for the first time in six and a half years.

"That isn't why I came, though."

There's a flutter in her stomach that wasn't there a minute ago. It's strange and familiar all at once.

"Do tell," she prompts, narrowly avoiding choking on the words.

He bends down and retrieves the bag she hadn't noticed at his feet, and extends it to her. He doesn't move to do so and she's forced to take a step closer so she can reach, but she takes it because it's a gift, apparently for her. Being closer to him is magnetic and dangerous like it always has been. You can take the girl out of Yale, the boy out of the Eastern seaboard, and the air out of their relationship but…

She was going somewhere with that and as she pulls the book out of the bag, she forgets where she was headed. "Infinite Jest?"

"I didn't know if you two had progressed to dystopia," he says, his voice tinged with something vaguely resembling teasing. "I know what kinds of things you used to read together, but my knowledge is falling a little short these days, and I thought you could use something that wasn't already a perennial favorite." He glances at her and, though she's busy looking at the book, she can feel that look. "I know you're going to hole up and read as soon as you get the chance. I thought the old haunts might be a little too difficult right now."

She swallows hard and watches the words on the back of the book blur. She places her hand over the disfigured letters. How does he still know about her? She pushed him away a lifetime ago and he shouldn't be here, speaking in a low voice, and offering the perfect gift with the superficial condolences that have extra layers of meaning in his case. It's not fair.

"How?" She manages. There are so many other things that should come after that question, but she can't make them flow.

Apparently the Master and Commander of Composure struggles too, because it takes him a long time to speak and he has to clean the gravel out of his voice with a discreet sound before he does.

"I don't know how it works," he says. "I do know that I didn't think about it. I heard the news and I was on a flight with the book in a bag in my hand without hesitation."

"I don't know how it works either, but I'm glad you're here," she says. "You remind me of something my grandfather said once and I've been thinking about it on a loop."

"What's that?"

Somewhere deep inside herself, she finds the courage to speak. The courage is what releases the words because it certainly isn't anything voluntary.

"That you only get one person who knows you best and everyone else is temporary."

She's busy wishing the ground would swallow her whole. This isn't a conversation you have with someone six minutes post-breakup, let alone six years. It is especially inappropriate given the way they ended.

"And you think I'm that person?"

"I…" She draws the syllable out, looks down at the not-so-interesting contrast of her black Mary Jane heels against the cement, and steadfastly avoids eye contact. She lets out a breath through O-shaped lips that is as much as a sigh as an exhale.

"I thought you were that person for me, too."

The past tense is a whole new stab. This one hits a little higher. She reverses her previous breath and sucks in through the hole in her lips. The noise is different but the feeling is the same. "And now you don't?" Maybe there's a little tiny masochist in her somewhere. Some people have an angel or devil situation, and it turns out maybe she just has her own Nasty Masochist.

"You said no," he answers. He still sounds hurt. It's been so long and he still sounds hurt. Maybe her Inner Nasty Masochist is really a Sadistic Inner Nasty Masochist, if it can make him sound like that and make her feel like this at the same time.

"I said no," she repeats. "I said no to getting married. I wasn't saying no to you, Logan."

"When I was standing in front of you with a ring in my hand and my heart in yours… it felt like they were one and the same."

She closes her eyes and as completely unsurprised to feel the water that had distorted her vision a moment ago drip down her cheeks now. It's two quick stripes of emotion, and not the least of which she's given him. "That was so long ago. I remember what I was thinking then. I do. I also know everything else in my life has been temporary since then." She holds up the book. "And the first part is still true, too." She sighs and drops her hand. "Do you realize today alone I've had offers to get drunk, have sex, take a kickboxing class, three offers for dinner dates, one to fix me up with someone's son, awkward hugs, and one completely inappropriate ass grab? No one has thought to bring me a book. No one except you, who apparently didn't even think about it. So please, do me the favor of not questioning my integrity because I've thought about it a lot and that's what I've come up with."

His eyes are wide and his smirk is faint, but there. "I've missed your rants."

"I've missed you," she admits in another fit of involuntary courage. This time she avoids eye contact by placing the book in the bag and the bag at her feet.

Somehow they're standing next to each other.

"I've missed you," he replies. His words are the same but his tone is different and if she's not mistaken, his hand is brushing against hers at their sides. With a twitch of her pinkie, their hands are laced together by the barest of threads, small finger to index finger.

It isn't much, not compared to the everything that used to be between them and the nothing that has been between them. It's enough for now, though. It's the first comfort she's felt in days and she can sort out of it's a new beginning or closure later. Eventually, their hands become tangled, a tiny knot of leftover something.

It doesn't feel temporary.

(It never has.)

It doesn't take much courage, involuntary or otherwise, to admit that.