A/N: My second Gilmore Girls one-shot. My other one was sad, so I feel like I had to write this one. It STILL bugs me that Rory and Jess didn't end up together. They were so perfect for each other!

Anyway, hope you like this one-shot.

DISCLAIMER: I do NOT own Gilmore Girls or any of the characters

My Ernest to your Fountain Head

As per usual, his phone rings when his hands are full. Balancing the tower of books in one hand, he reaches into his pocket (when did jean pockets become so tight anyway?) and pulls it out. He glances at the number. Even though he doesn't recognise it, he still answers. He's waiting to hear from one of the new poets on the scene and, because they're poets, they won't try again if you don't answer the first time. They'll get high on coffee or booze or pot and spend half the night writing the things they see in their hallucinations. Not that he knows from personal experience or anything.

He presses answer and puts it to his ear. "Hello?"

The only thing he can hear is the static, and perhaps the sound of breathing.

Readjusting the books into both hands, he tries to manoeuvre his way to the counter. "Hello?" he repeats.

This time he thinks maybe he can hear a shuffling in the background.

"Look," he says, a slight edge in his voice. "I'm pretty busy, so unless you speak in the next five seconds I'm hanging up now."

When there is still no answer he says, "Fine," and is about to grab the phone again when he hears a voice.

"Wait."

The books tumble out of his hands. He doesn't want to be dramatic (drama is way overdone in the works of fiction) but this is the very last person he would ever expect to call him.

He places the phone in the palm of his hand, utterly focused on the voice now. "Is this who I think it is?"

"Maybe," she answers.

He doesn't know what to say. He's never known what to say with Lorelai Gilmore. He can't even recall them ever having a civil conversation, at least not one that wasn't in the presence of Luke or Rory. In fact they had a silent a agreement to pretend that the other did not exist.

"Have I entered the twilight zone?" he asks. Pretty lame comeback, but he can't gather his thoughts.

He hears her sigh. "This is most likely a mistake. Scratch that. This is definitely a mistake."

He waits.

Another sigh. "Look, I wouldn't be calling if it wasn't important."

He wants to say can we just get to the point already? but he remembers how rude he was to her in the past, recognises that she didn't always deserve it. He's older now, and he's meant to have gotten his shit together. Or, he's happier now, found the place where he belongs. He doesn't have that anger cloaked round him; his black dog has stopped shadowing him.

"Rory's getting married."

Heart stops, breath catches, face pales. All of these are used when an author wants to show that a character has experienced a shock. As far as he knows, all he does is go completely still. "Is that so?" His voice sounds weird, oddly restrained.

"Yeah, it is." There's another pause. "To Logan."

He closes his eyes for a moment, picturing the drunk youth, hiding insults in his words. His fist twitches.

"They're getting married tomorrow."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Because you and I both know she doesn't belong with him. His family thinks she's trash, and she'll be pigeon-holed into a life of a rich wife, one of these high society women that constantly feels inferior and has nothing of her own. You and I both know she's more than that."

"Is she working?"

"She was offered a job as a journalist at The New York Times, but Logan's job is in San Francisco so she's going with him. She's going to find one there."

He wants to sit down. No, he wants to go all the way to Stars Hollow and shake Rory. She's going to turn down a job at The New York Times. What the hell is with this guy, how he seems to stop her from following her dreams?

"What do you want me to do?"

"Stop it." Her voice is firmer now. A mother ready to fight for her daughter. "She doesn't belong with Logan. I've tried to talk to her about it, but she won't listen to me." She pauses as if she's expecting him to be shocked at this. "You need to come tonight. Will you?"

He stares into the distance.

"Leave it to me."

When he hangs up, it occurs to him that his answer might have been a lot different if he wasn't staring at a copy of Howl.

He sits at their place by the river. He remembers when they first came here together, during that picnic thing where he outbid Dean. He's not that guy anymore, but it occurs to him that he would do the same thing all over again.

It's funny: with her he has many regrets, but there are also so many things he would do exactly the same.

It's twenty minutes before the meeting time, but he can hear the click of heels as she walks towards him. He remembers the girl who told her mother that the teachers needed to meet the parents early on the first day, just to make sure she wouldn't be late.

It takes strength to look at her. She's in typical Gilmore-Girl Party outfit, a pink feather-boa hanging from her neck, a plastic crown placed on her head, a banner across her chest in glitter. Her hair is long now, more brown than it used to be. She is wearing a blue dress with matching heels, and he thinks she's come a long way from the girl is scruffy trainers and cheap jeans.

She stares at him for a moment, her arms crossed. She doesn't sit next to him. "What are you doing here?"

"Sight-seeing," he replies, his voice thick with sarcasm. He gestures to her outfit. "Nice dress."

"Thanks." She reaches into her little purse, pulling out a crumpled piece of paper that she holds up. "What's with the secrecy?" He doesn't need to see the paper that she's holding, the folded sheet that he stuck through her bedroom window in the quiet afternoon sun, with words only she could possibly understand. My Ernest to your Fountain Head, midnight.

He thinks of the looks they shared, with Dean's arm wrapped round her shoulders; the secret kiss stolen on Sookie and Jackson's wedding day; the electric feeling that was in the air when they were together. "That's always been our thing, hasn't it?" he says, not that he expects an answer. He looks away from her, to the water. The moon's pale face reflects, the only witness. "I'm assuming the dress you'll be wearing tomorrow will be even prettier. A matching veil, perhaps? Or will it be a nice tiara instead?"

He sees her reflection wince. "Jess."

He doesn't know what she was going to say, if she was going to say anything at all. But now he's on his feet, and his heart is pumping so fast he can feel the blood rushing through his body. "You should have told me you were getting married Rory."

"Why?" she says, and he almost wants to smile as she spits the word out. Finally the old Rory Gilmore is coming back.

"Because it's me. I deserved to know. And before you say anything else, I deserved to know from you."

"Forgive me, I didn't think you wanted to come. You can if you want. Have a front seat, by all means."

"What, next to Dean? No thanks." He watches her glance away. "Y'know why I think you didn't tell me? Because you knew I would talk you out of it."

"You're not talking me out of it," she shoots back, her eyes rounding on him.

"Yet," he returns, like they're tennis players lobbing balls back and forth. "You got offered a position at The New York Times and you're not taking it because of Logan? What the hell Rory?"

"I love him!"

"So you lose yourself in the process? Why shouldn't he follow you? Why can't you follow your dreams?"

"We made the decision together – we agreed – what business is it of yours?"

He ignores the last statement. "The old Rory Gilmore would have leapt at the chance. So what's the problem? You running scared?"

"I'm not – I love Logan! He's a decent guy, the only guy-"

He pounces on her words. "The only guy? What, are you waiting for another proposal before you leave him?"

"No!" She puts a hand on her head, fingers touching her hair. "You're twisting my words."

"I'm not going to propose to you Rory," he says. His voice, which has been veering wildly in pitch and tone, is firmer now, steadier. Funny, how those words in particular give him strength.

She shoots him a look, as if she's scandalised at the very idea. "I'm not asking you to."

He puts a hand to his mouth. "Y'know, I've put myself on the line for you Rory, time and time again. I've thrown myself out there, and I've had you toss my words back at me. It's not exactly painless." He thinks, under the indignation, he sees a glimmer of the old Rory. The one who laughs at rich boys and has a conscience. "And a part of me can't believe I'm here again, putting myself out there, going out of my way for you. But another part of me knows that I love you." The words are familiar on his tongue, a poem that he knows by heart. "And it's telling me to do it all over again, because the pain of your rejection won't be anywhere near the pain of you getting married to someone else."

She shifts on her heels, her eyes bright. "Jess," she says, hopelessly.

He holds up a hand. "If you want to marry him, I won't stop you. But I'm asking you to think about it. Not because – not for me, or anything like that. But because I know what you're capable of. I know that you can be the greatest journalist out there. I know that you want to see it all. It's who you are Rory, and walking away from this job may not hurt now, but-" He takes a deep breath. "I don't want you to wake up a year down the line, or five or even ten years, regretting the fact that you didn't take it."

He looks at her, and for a brief moment he sees the girl that she used to be. The girl he fell in love with, almost the very second he saw her. Even now, he couldn't tell you why. Love's a bitch like that.

"See you around," he murmurs, and once again he walks away from her.

Luke lives with Lorelai now, so he hides out in his uncle's old apartment for the night (the key is still hidden under the mat, like always). He isn't going to stay long. If he hasn't convinced Rory now, he won't. And he's not the type of guy to burst through the church shouting I object. That may be the works of great fiction, but this is real life.

It's morning, the early sun lighting up the room, when the door bursts open. He's awake (he hasn't gotten any sleep, too wound up to even comprehend it). He watches as she strides into the room, her hair flying behind her. And before he can even speak, she grabs his shirt and kisses him.

And suddenly its years ago, a summer's day at Sookie and Jackson's wedding, when her mouth presses against his and it occurs to him that nothing has ever suited him as much. Suddenly he is lost in her ivory skin, fingers caught in her hair like he wants to attach himself to it. Suddenly he is seventeen again and falling for the first (and only) time.

When they part his mouth feels bruised, but in the best possible way. "What was that for?"

She is looking at him, those blue eyes of hers shining like the stars. "Just wanted to make sure that there was more."

"More?"

She simply smiles at him, that old smile, her smile. "I'll meet you at my house in an hour," she says, backing away.

His heart is thudding, elation flowing through his veins, but he still doesn't want to get his hopes up. "What?"

"Come to my house with your car, in one hour, and be my hero." She flashes him another smile, and there she is: the girl he fell in love with. "This time I'm putting myself on the line." Her face changes, a serious look faltering the grin. "You're the only one I would do it for."

He can't decide which days were the best.

Those first days, when she stayed with him in Philadelphia. Where they lived in his apartment and where clothes were optional, where Chinese takeout cartons were piled in the kitchen and where phone calls were left unanswered. Where he learnt by heart how many freckles she had on her arms, could count the colours in her eyes, could close his eyes and still trace the curve of her smile.

Or when she went to work in New York and how he somehow managed to visit her every week, sent her packaged books of things he thought she would like. Where they wrote each other letters, and he read them over and over again, learning the shape of her gs, preferring them more than emails and texts. Where they ended up having sex in the hallways when they met again, their kisses like bright coins dropped from the sky.

Or when they first moved in together. How he cooked for her even though their work schedules were insane. Where he woke up with his hair in his face. Where Sunday mornings were spent in bed, how he would lie there and where he got that family feeling – that this was how families were supposed to be, this was how Sundays were spent.

Or even when she became pregnant, how he would be woken up in the middle of the night and sent out for crazy food. How he hid her coffee. How she always found the coffee. How they argued over baby names ("Our son is not going to be called Ernest") and painted the nursery, dreamed of their child becoming the next Great American Author ("Though knowing our luck, she'll probably hate reading").

When she is born, he holds her, and her eyes are the exact blue of her mother's. That's when he knows he's fallen again.

They are watching his daughter in the nursery, fast asleep, when he asks over a cup of strong coffee, "Why did you call me?"

Lorelai doesn't pretend she doesn't know what he means. "You were the only one who could stop the wedding."

"How did you know? I mean, I didn't even know."

She smiles at him, and it's in that second he truly appreciates how much of Rory she has in her. "Because Rory has never been disloyal to a boyfriend, and yet when she was dating two different guys she ended up kissing you. You were always the common denominator." She shrugs. "As much as I didn't want to believe it, she loved you. I knew that any doubts she had about marrying Logan, you were number one."

Their eyes meet, and despite all the arguments they've had, he knows they are both connected through the simple fact they would walk through hell for Rory. They'll never be each other's favourite people, but it's impossible to hate a person who is the heart of someone you love. "I'm still not naming my daughter after you."

She smiles, and he sees his daughter's future. "Damn."

Hours to make. Seconds to comment.

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