A/N:

I don't own the characters, I just play with them. No copyright infringement intended.

Thank you all for reading, and a special thanks to those who take the time to review :D

20. Of Morals, Snoops and Writers

"So, I've done something despicable," Rory says sullenly, plopping down on the bench next to Lane.

"Okay, that's almost impossible," Lane remarks in disbelief. "You know, sort of like Aretha Frnklin's voice giving out or something."

Rory rolls her eyes. "Fine, something I probably shouldn't have done then," she deadpans dejectedly.

"Huh, only slightly more probable, but I'll allow the possibility," Lane chuckles, rips open a bag of M&Ms and digs for a yellow one. "Okay, so, the specifics of this morally questionable action?"

"How do you know it was morally questionable?" Rory frowns.

"Well, those are the ones that usually make your face screw up like that," Lane declares carelessly, rattling the bag and handing it over. Rory opts for blue.

"It's about Jess," she says after a moment.

"Oh awesome, I was hoping you'd say that," Lane giggles, scooting closer. "Was it a sex thing?" she asks breathlessly, eyes wide open.

"What? No!" Rory shakes her head vehemently, then pauses a second. "What would even qualify as a morally questionable sex thing, provided it's not cheating?" she asks in a confused tone, contemplating the issue.

"Oh right, sorry, I forget you're not burdened with the whole religion-induced guilt," Lane sighs, dramatically. "But if you were, there'd be an endless list of answers to that question," she points out with conviction, then shakes her head. "Okay, never mind that now, back to this highly improbable morally questionable action of yours…"

"Right, okay," Rory nods, backtracking. "Well, I was going through Jess's backpack and -"

"You went through his backpack?" Lane interjects, eyebrows lifting in disbelief.

"Well, it was an accident!" Rory counters defensively.

"Okay, first of all, I'm not judging you, so, you know, take a breath, and secondly – how do you accidentally go through someone's backpack?" Lane wonders, frowning.

Rory sighs. "Would you just let me tell the story?"

"Right, sure, sorry," Lane chuckles, searching for another yellow piece. "I'll just shut up and chew."

"That'd be great," Rory nods, and takes a breath. "Okay, so I had permission to go into the backpack – we were up at the apartment and supposed to watch a movie, but then Luke called Jess down to the diner for something-"

"Aw, he's still running interference, is he?" Lane chuckles incredulously.

"Well yeah, but you know, the intervals are up to almost half an hour now, so it's almost tolerable," Rory informs her, brightening up.

"Wow, he's really slipping," Lane comments, eyebrows raised. "And it's only been, what? Three months?"

"Yeah, I know, it's weird," Rory chuckles, then frowns. "Weren't you supposed to be chewing?" Lane cringes and smiles apologetically. "Anyway, so out he goes, but he tells me to get the movie out of the backpack and start it. So, you know, that's permission, right?"

"Well, to get the movie, yeah," Lane shrugs.

"Okay, so I open the backpack," Rory continues, ignoring the pointed out distinction, "and find the movie – oh, and by the way, the movie? It was 'Mamma Mia', and if you haven't seen that, you should definitely get it, it's hilarious!"

Lane nearly chokes on a handful of yellow M&ms. "Jess rented 'Mamma Mia'?" she blurts out, gasping for air. "Oh my God, that sounds even more impossible than you doing a despicable thing!"

Rory nods, giggling. "I know, but he said he just couldn't miss an ABBA singing James Bond in platforms and sparkly overalls."

"Pierce Brosnan wears platforms?" Lane gapes incredulously.

"Well, not really, not in the movie, but there's a bit at the closing credits that… You know what? Just get the movie," Rory declares, shaking her head.

"Oh I will," Lane nods vigorously, then frowns. "Okay, so the unlikely movie choice aside, what else did you find in there?"

"A notebook," Rory says with a sigh.

"So, like a… school notebook?" Lane lifts her eyebrows, prodding.

"Okay, once again, what would be morally questionable about me looking through his notes from school?" Rory asks incredulously.

"I don't know, you're sometimes weird when it comes to school stuff," Lane shrugs.

"I'm not weird," Rory argues, snatching back the M&Ms.

"Fine, then… peculiar," Lane shrugs off the comment placidly, then gawks at Rory. "Oh my God, was it his diary?"

"Huh, no, not really," Rory shakes her head. "It was more like… well, like a book, I guess."

"You guess?"

"Well, if the pages were typed instead of handwritten, and the whole thing was inside a hardcover instead of a notebook, I'd definitely call it a book," Rory says in a dull tone.

"Okay, so, did you read it?" Lane asks excitedly.

"Lane, he was gone for maybe 15 minutes," Rory points out exasperatedly. "I mean, I'm a fast reader, but only R2D2 is that fast."

"Okay, but 15 minutes, that must have gotten you, what? 15 pages?" Lane wonders, calculating.

"27," Rory shrugs. "Then he came back so I had to stop."

"So, okay, I'm guessing he didn't catch you at it because I suspect if he had, we'd be having a somewhat different conversation right now," Lane concludes shrewdly.

"I heard him coming up the stairs so I put it back and you know, pretended like nothing happened," Rory confirms.

"Right," Lane nods, frowning. "So, well, was it any good?"

"Yeah, that's just it, it was really great, it was totally original and completely different from anything else I've ever read and it's killing me that I can't tell him that!" Rory says, frustrated.

"Well, you know, maybe you could tell him. I mean, it was an accident, sort of, it's not like you went in there with the intention to snoop. He might be okay with it," Lane offers reasonably.

"Somehow, I seriously doubt that," Rory says miserably. "I mean, it's Jess. He hates talking about himself, and getting him to share stuff is like pulling out nails with a pair of tweezers."

"Okay, so maybe not," Lane cringes.

"Trust me, he would hate this, and besides, if he wanted me to read it, or even know about it, he would have told me." Rory shakes her head sadly. "On some level, I wish I'd never seen the stupid thing."

"Yeah, it's a pickle," Lane nods sympathetically.

"A pickle?" Rory can't suppress a chuckle.

"Yeah, okay, pickle is lame and outdated, and I have no idea why I chose the phrase," Lane rolls her eyes, and looks into the bag again. There are no more yellow M&Ms. "But I still think you should just tell him."

"Why?" Rory asks incredulously.

"Because, you're you, and there's no way you can keep this to yourself," Lane shrugs.

"Hey, I can keep a secret," Rory counters with a frown.

"A secret, yeah," Lane nods, "but this is something that you'll think of every time you look at him, and it will fester and fester until it drives you nuts."

"Well, maybe I could somehow get him to tell me without asking directly," Rory shrugs, contemplating.

"Manipulation? No, not your strong suit either," Lane shakes her head. "Unless, you know, you enlist Lorelai's help, she's a natural at it."

"Okay, this conversation is doing wonders for my confidence," Rory rolls her eyes. "I mean, is there even anything I'm good at?"

"Oh yeah," Lane smiles. "Being honest."

"Great," Rory deadpans.

"I know it's sadly under-rated, but it's your best shot," Lane concludes, and rattles the bag, switching to orange pieces.

"So that's it, I should just tell him?" Rory asks, defeated.

"That's what I'm going with," Lane shrugs. "I mean, think about it, what's the worst that could happen?"

"I don't know," Rory sighs, "a fight?"

"So, you'll fight. God knows you're both good at it, I can bear witness to that," Lane points out with a chuckle.

Rory rolls her eyes. "That was in another life, this would be like… a couple fight. We haven't had one of those."

"Yeah, but it would also be a couple make-up, eventually," Lane chuckles, "and that might be memorable."

Rory can't really argue with that, so she just nods, smiling, and pulls a handful of M&Ms out of the bag. "Okay, so enough about Jess… Let's go over the Korea extraction plan again, because the D-day is drawing near and you know, preparation is everything," she chuckles.

"Oh great, I thought you'd never ask," Lane nods vigorously, and digs through her bag. "Okay, I have a list here…"

…

In the days that follow, Lane is proven right – every time Rory sees Jess, the notebook and its contents creep into her head. She tosses around the question of to tell or not to tell, and slowly begins to feel like a contemporary incarnation of Hamlet as she spins around in a never-ending circle of pros and cons. The internal debate is regularly topped off with the million-dollar question of why he never mentioned that he actually wrote a book.

Maybe he didn't, a possibility presents itself suddenly; maybe he's still writing it and wants to wait until it's finished. She likes this theory and it affords her a few days of peace of mind, until she realizes that there's no evidence of that, one way or the other, and the internal debate begins anew. Ignoring Lane's discouraging assessment of her manipulation (in)ability, she tries to steer a few conversations towards the issue indirectly, fishing for some specifics by making general comments on writing; unsurprisingly, it gets her nowhere and she ultimately gives it up, fervently wishing there was a manual somewhere on how to be a devious female.

Maybe it's about trust, she thinks sadly; maybe he just doesn't trust her enough to let her see this huge piece of him, because that's what it is, there was a lot of him in those 27 pages she managed to go through. It wasn't exactly an autobiographical thing, but it reflected his thought process very clearly, his voice was very recognizable in those pages, enough for her to instantly know they were written by him and not someone else. Or maybe he just doesn't care what I'd think, another chilling perspective arises out of the gloom, twisting her insides in a clammy knot. Somehow, this one seems worst of all, the idea that her opinion doesn't matter to him at all, and she looks over at him, suddenly feeling like she's staring at a stranger, distant and unfamiliar, wondering if she even knows him at all.

"You want to tell me why you look like you just had an embolism?" he smirks, pulling one of his legs up and propping his elbow against it; the other remains hanging off the side of the bridge and she blindly watches it dangle over the water for a moment.

"I want to read your book," she says quietly.

He chuckles. "Which one of the glorious eleven?"

She looks up at him and takes a breath. "Well, the twelfth one, actually," she says simply.

"Well, by my count, that's one more than I can currently offer," he smirks.

"No," she shakes her head, "I'm talking about your book. As in, the book you wrote. In that notebook."

He looks at her blankly. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Oh come one, Jess!" she erupts, irked by the nonchalance. "There's a notebook, blue, squared, in your backpack, with something that bears striking resemblance to a novel written inside! Are you seriously telling me you don't know what I'm referring to?"

"Oh my God," he shakes his head, chuckling. "I totally forgot all about that!"

"You forgot about it?" she gapes at him incredulously. "You forgot you wrote a book? Are you kidding me? How is that even possible?"

"I don't know, I haven't looked at or thought of the thing for almost a year!" he says defensively, caught off guard by the unexpected outburst.

"Excuse me?" she gawks at him. "Over a year? You carry it around in your backpack!"

"Well, I haven't really seen the bottom of that thing in a while either, so God knows what else might be in there," he chuckles.

She shakes her head clear, trying to grapple the issue. "When exactly did you write this?"

"I don't know, last year, the year before, I don't really remember," he frowns, apparently concentrating.

"So, you wrote a book at – what, fifteen?" she asks in disbelief.

"Probably, I didn't keep track of the date," he shrugs. "What's with the third degree, anyway?" he asks, puzzled.

"You wrote a book at fifteen," she reasserts, completely shocked.

"Okay, calling it a book is a little presumptuous," he comments casually, and looks for his cigarettes.

"Oh, really?" she lifts her eyebrows. "Fine then, what do you call it?"

"I don't know, it didn't really need a name before now," he shrugs.

"Well, then trust me –it's a book," she clips with annoyance. "Well, at least if the first 27 pages are any indication."

"Fine, it's a book if that's what you want it to be. I still don't understand why you're making such a big deal about it," he frowns, shaking his head.

"You wrote a book at fifteen," she repeats, enunciating every word.

"Okay, that's getting old," he rolls his eyes, chuckling.

"Sorry," she says sarcastically. "How about – you wrote a really great book, regardless how old you were?"

"You've read 27 pages," he points out with a smirk.

"Yeah well, somehow I suspect the rest is equally great," she declares with certainty. "I don't get it, how can you be so… dismissive about it?"

He shrugs and lights a cigarette. "Because, it's not a big deal, it doesn't really matter."

"Jess, that took a lot of work, and as far as I could see, it came out great, and trust me, it is a big deal," she says exasperatedly.

"It took a few months of scribbling when I had nothing better to do," he corrects her with a smile.

"Okay, well, if it came that easy and turned out that good, then it's an even bigger deal," she shrugs, unfazed.

"It's not that good," he warns again.

"Oh, I beg to differ," she counters quickly, folding her hands.

He laughs. "Well, I kind of doubt you're being very objective."

"Oh, please, don't even try that," she deadpans, "I've read enough books to recognize a really good one when I come across it, regardless of who wrote it."

"Okay, so there's an interesting issue we've overlooked," he smirks. "How did you come across it, exactly?"

"What?" she asks, confused at the sudden shift in subject matter.

"The notebook," he elaborates.

"Oh, right," she nods, suddenly fidgeting. "Well, when I went into your backpack to get Mamma Mia, it sort of… got in the way, so I took it out."

He smirks. "So, you sort of when through my stuff?"

"Hey, you told me to get the movie, it's not like it was my idea to go rummaging through your backpack," she says, aiming to sound aloof.

"The movie, yeah… but I don't remember mentioning anything else," he points out, frowning slightly.

"As I said, it got in the way," she stubbornly sticks to her story.

He laughs. "And miraculously fell in your lap, opening up in the process?"

"No," she throws him a dirty look. "I don't know, I actually thought it was for school, but then it felt unusually thick and used, so that theory fell through swiftly."

"Right… so, basically, you knew it had nothing to do with school before you opened it?" he asks innocently.

She rolls her eyes, giving up. "Fine, I was curious!"

He chuckles. "You mean, you were snooping?"

"I was getting the movie! The rest just sort of… happened," she admits, blushing slightly.

"What if it had been… a diary, or something?" he challenges, hiding a smirk. "That would have been a serious invasion of privacy."

"Yeah well, the universe in which you keep a diary is just highly improbable," she points out with a chuckle.

"It could happen," he shrugs, baiting.

"Sure, and penguins could fly, but neither is likely," she rolls her eyes and hugs her knees, frowning at him.

"You're still a snoop," he chuckles.

"You still wrote a book," she counters, eyebrows raised.

"I scribbled down some random thoughts over a few months," he deadpans.

She shrugs, nonplussed. "Yeah well, in literary criticism, that particular form is known as 'stream of consciousness'."

"Well, I sincerely doubt my consciousness would be of any interest to anyone," he chuckles.

"I want to read it," she declares with conviction.

"You'd read anything," he points out the obvious.

"True, but I wouldn't declare just anything great," she warns solemnly.

"You've read 27 pages, which is hardly a basis for any declarations," he smirks at the frown.

"Okay, that's a fair point," she concedes. "I guess it's entirely possible you totally screwed it up by page 59, or whatever."

"Thank you!" he bows his head dramatically.

She rests her chin on her knees for a moment and stares at the wooden planks, then looks out over the lake, then back at him. "So, will you let me read it?"

He laughs. "You just don't give up, do you?"

"Sorry," she smiles apologetically.

He looks at her, suddenly realizing he really wants to know what she'll think of it. "Fine, you can read it."

"Really?" she asks, surprised.

"You'll be disappointed, but yeah, sure," he shrugs.

She frowns at him, confused. "Why would I be disappointed?"

"Because in your head, you've built it up into some literary masterpiece which, I assure you, it's not," he chuckles. "But still, yeah, go ahead and read it, I'd actually like to know what you make of it."

"Okay, great," she beams at him expectantly; he studies the expression for a moment, uncertain what to make of it.

"What?"

"Well, give it to me," she says simply.

He gapes at her. "Now?"

"Yes, now," she says like it's most natural thing in the world. "Now is a very good time."

"Yes, it is," he smirks, leaning closer, "but not for reading. You can have it when you go home, but for now, I've got wildly different plans."

A/N:

All writers love reviews, good or bad. They are precious insights into our reader's minds. They usually make us try harder. They often make us get better at what we do. They always motivate us to keep going. They show us what we've done well, what we've done badly and what we could have done differently. Ultimately, they make us happy.
Just something to think about :)