A/N:

Sorry for the delay in getting this chapter published. Certain world events have made me reconsider where this story is headed... which will become clear about five chapters from now.

As always, your comments and reviews are very welcome and appreciated. I read, learn and grow from them all, good or bad.

Disclaimer: Any similarity to previously posted fan fiction is unintentional. All ideas are my own, except those of the original series. I still don't own Gilmore Girls, but I'm jonesing for the new episodes, as I'm sure you all are too.

Chapter 4 – Snail mail, Chain mail

Jess raised his head at the sound of his name.

"Yo, Jess. You in there? Mail-call, Mr. Bossman."

He grimaced as Stephen tossed a bundle of letters onto his desk, narrowly missing his coffee. The kid was entirely too chipper considering the early hour, a holdover from his time with the army no doubt.

"Turn down the wattage. Some of us don't crow with the roosters, ok?"

Truncheon's newest hire just smiled right through Jess' attempt to put him down. Damn. He wondered briefly how Matt had ever convinced him to give the kid a chanceand groaned inwardly. Stephen wrote great short pieces for their monthly issue, of that there was no doubt. But his talent just wasn't worth putting up with the AM, smiley-happy bullshit. Luckily, there was a morning delivery, which distracted Stephen from continuing their conversation any further.

Jess lowered his head back down to rest on his forearms, wishing again that he had stopped reading that damned manuscript at a decent hour instead of working right through and into the pink hours of dawn. He was getting too old for all-nighters, but there was just too much work to handle at the moment.

He, Matt and Chris were juggling all three locations for now, trying to share the owner, publisher and manager duties of the new Truncheon empireamongst themselves. It wasn't a permanent solution, though, a fact that had become glaringly obvious. They were all burnt out, struggling to keep up with the demands on their time. At some point they would have to break down and hire a manager for at least one shop, likely Boston, as none of them liked travelling there. Chris had drawn the short straw, but he wouldn't be able to stay there forever without hating his partners.

Jess wearily turned his eyes to the stacks of work waiting for him. There was a novella waiting for a first read-through, and a few folders of photos from artists hoping to show their work in the store. And then there was a stack of bills waiting to be paid.

He rubbed his hands over his face, and wondered how he'd gone from promising writer, to editor, to business owner, to bookkeeper in under ten years. He mentally added hire a bookkeeper to the running To Do list in his head. After a fortifying gulp of coffee, he stripped the rubber bands off the mail and started sorting through it. Probably best to start with making sure the lights didn't get shut off.

Halfway through the pile, he sat up straighter in his chair. The envelope he held in his hands was clearly marked with a gold and blue eagle, and the postmark was Washington DC. He ripped into it quickly, a tear slicing right through his address, written in swirling, feminine script that he had recognized instantly.

Holy shit. Never in a million years did he think he'd get a letter on official White House stationery, especially not from her. But their lives had evolved in strange and magical ways such that nothing truly surprised him anymore.

Jess,

I thought you'd get a kick out of receiving a letter with the White House seal. I know I'm getting a thrill while writing it, although that could just be because it's my first one. And I fully intend to put this fancy pen in my purse when I'm done.

Thank you so much for your note. Your congratulations will always mean a lot to me. I'm sorry it's taken more than two weeks to say that, but my head is still spinning. I've only unpacked my coffee pot so far, and considering how busy I've been on my first day, I doubt I'll get all of my books onto shelves before it's time to pack up and leave again.

I may just have to sleep under my desk here at work; at least the carpet is soft. That, and they have good donuts, which we all know is a deciding factor.

Hopefully I've sent this to the right location, or at least that it will reach you soon. I was suitably impressed to have three cities to choose from when looking for an address! Where will Truncheon expand next?

Rory

His mouth quirked up at the corner, and he ran his fingers over the embossed emblem at the top of the page. She might hold one of the most powerful jobs in her field, but she still wrote like the old Rory.

His Rory.

That was a dangerous train of thought. He huffed out a breath and tossed the letter down onto the wood surface of his desk like it was poison. After all of their history, all of the hurt on both sides, he had no business thinking like that. It was safe enough to watch her on TV, his one sided obsession staying under control by virtue of the medium.

But this was different. He wanted to write back. Hell, he was already drafting his response in his head.

Get it together, Mariano Jess lectured himself silently. She was just being polite, acknowledging his letter as common courtesy dictated. Her grandmother had no doubt drilled some version of Miss Manners into her head along with the DAR indoctrination.

She was just being polite.

He pushed her letter to the side, and tried to ignore the ache he felt at the idea that her response was nothing more than a perfunctory thank-you. After another sip of coffee, he pulled the business chequebook out of the bottom drawer and ripped open the bill at the top of the scattered pile of envelopes.

Twenty hand-cramping minutes later, Jess was no closer to being finished. He was not cut out to do this sort of work. In fact, at that precise moment he would rather be anywhere else in the world, no matter how inhospitable, if it meant he wouldn't have to pay bills anymore.

He leaned back in his chair and rubbed at his eyes. Damn. He'd forgotten his glasses at his apartment. No wonder his head was already aching. His vision wasn't so bad that he was unable to read completely, but just enough that it caused a horrible headache from the strain of squinting at the damn chequebook.

Jess unconsciously reached for the letter again. Its creamy white paper stood out amongst the dingy envelopes and receipts. His fingers traced over the embossed address block at the top.

Office of the Press Secretary. 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, Washington, District of Columbia.

Yes, there was a PO box listed as well, where he was sure all mail was checked and stamped before being distributed. But he liked the idea of that address, so symbolic and recognizable. He definitely liked the idea of Rory sitting there at her desk, doing great things, being witness to events that shaped the whole nation.

Her signature hadn't changed much. He'd always thought it was girly, the way the letters looped over on themselves. It had seemed at odds with the person he'd known, who was both feminine and beautifully simple in the same breath. His Rory – such an enigma.

Shit. He had to stop thinking of her like that. She was probably a completely different person now, with life experiences so disparate from his own that they likely had no more in common than a bear and a butterfly would. Still, she made the effort to say thank you. And she had asked a question at the end of her reply. It would be rude not to respond in kind, wouldn't it?

He leaned back in the office chair, holding the thick paper up in front of him. He knew he was trying to find a justification for what he wanted to do. He wasn't so far gone that he couldn't be honest with himself about his motivations. Normally he was so certain, relying on his gut for decisions large and small. And he never second guessed them. Not anymore.

But when she was involved, his instincts were unreliable. Just the thought of her and their interwoven past sent his internal compass whirling. She had brought him to his knees, more than once. How could he trust himself knowing that all bets were off where she was concerned?

Screw it. It's just a letter you jackass. The voice on his shoulder - angel or devil, he couldn't be certain – broke through, ending his melancholy exploration.

What was the worst that could happen? They weren't even speaking, technically; just sending old-fashioned, hand-written letters back and forth. Shit, they were pen pals, at best. There was nothing inherently dangerous about that. It was an activity for girl scouts and primary school classes.

Yeah, and prison inmates.

Jess snorted to himself. The noise alerted Stephen, who gave him a curious look from behind the front counter.

"What?" he snarled, hating the way the kid was watching him.

Stephen held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. "Nothing, man. Just wondering why the gas bill was so funny, is all."

Jess rolled his eyes and stood to face his employee.

"Why don't you make yourself useful and re-do the front window? Halloween is coming up and I'm sure we can find some depressing, spooky titles to push out the door."

With that, he shut the office door firmly in Stephen's face. He considered it a real piece of personal growth that he hadn't slammed it in frustration instead. He certainly didn't need anyone in his business, especially this business, with this person.

Chris and Matt had made their opinions about Rory perfectly clear. They couldn't really hate her because neither had really met her, and they weren't the types to pre-judge a person. But after her one disastrous visit to Truncheon, they both felt he was better off without the distraction. And until now, he hadn't had any reason to disagree.

But that was all years ago. They didn't bring her up in conversation when he talked about Stars Hollow anymore. That time in his life seemed so far removed from where he was now, it didn't even register to his partners. And he intended to keep it that way.

With his decision made, Jess reached down to the bottom left drawer of his desk, pulling out the package of stationery he'd bought specifically for his first note to her. He refused to acknowledge why he thought special paper was required to send Rory his congratulations. The store was on his way to work that morning, he was thinking about what he wanted to write to her, and so it had seemed logical to stop in.

If he was a fanciful sort of person, he might have said that any note to her deserved better than a page torn out of his writing notebook. But he didn't think he'd ever even used the word fanciful, so it was a moot point.

With a clean, white sheet on the desk, he grabbed his pen; his writing pen. Every writer had their preference. When he was young, and poor, anything with ink or lead would do when he needed to get his thoughts out. His writing had matured however, and so had his tastes. Sure, he used a laptop for most things. But when the words were important, or when the emotion was too much for a keyboard, he preferred the permanence of thick, black letters by his own hand.

As Jess touched the pen to the heavy paper, the ink flowed with his thoughts. There was something melodic about the way the nib scratched over the surface, following his quick movements with surety. His rhythm never faltered, because he'd never been short on words when he was speaking to Rory. Soon, the page was filled, and he moved on to the matching envelope.

Only when the letter was sealed shut did he sit back and take a breath. His fingers flexed and he stared at the envelope. It seemed so innocent, but his erratic gut felt otherwise. What if she didn't write back? It wasn't that hard to imagine, being as busy as she was.

But what if she did send him another letter? His eyes flicked again to the package of paper and matching envelopes; there were eight of each remaining. Suddenly, he hoped to have the chance to use every single piece.

He jumped up and threw on his jacket, grabbing his keys and the stack of mail. His letter got shuffled between the outgoing cheques, hidden from any prying eyes that might be waiting outside the office. His luck held until his fingers touched the front door.

"Hey! You going out? It's almost time for my fifteen."

Jess marvelled at the way Stephen's voice could sound cheerful and pissed off at the same time.

"I'm heading to the post office. You know, Bossman duties wait for no one's coffee break." Jess smirked and stepped out into the brisk fall day. "Later, kid."