A/N: Thank you to everyone who reviewed and/or read Chapter 1! Every review is a little zap of joy into my day and I really appreciate it. It's been wonderful in all kinds of ways to be a part of this fandom.

Robot Monster finished as dramatically as it began, which isn't saying much. Now on the walk home with Jess, the wind whipping against her neck, Rory regrets that she didn't wear a hat or scarf. She should at least start leaving gloves in her coat pockets.

"Do you wanna come in for a while?" she says when they get to her front yard and the splash of porch light on the lawn.

His gaze goes up to the second-floor windows. "Is your mom still up?"

"Well it's barely past nine, so I'm gonna go with yes."

"Pass." He brushes at his nose, his hand a flash of cold-induced pink before he jams it back into the pocket of his leather jacket.

Keeping her tone light and casual is important if she wants him to agree to this. "We have cocoa and blankets inside."

"But out here I get you all to myself."

"But I'm cold." She juts her bottom lip out the tiniest centimeter.

The edge in his voice gets sanded down. "Well let's say I have an alternative heat source."

"Let's say you do." She steps over into the corner of the yard, out of the direct glow of the light. He follows.

"The thing is, it's still in development." His hands have to be freezing, back outside of his pockets. But he's hooking his fingers through her front belt loops and tugging her towards him, and maybe her waist is just as good of a place for them to be. "I could get in a lotta trouble if I reveal too many trade secrets."

"We wouldn't want that."

"So you have to close your eyes."

She stumbles into him the last bit of the way, her hip bone knocking into his through two layers of coats. She has to put her arms around his neck to steady herself. With her eyes shut she feels the heat of his exhaled breath start at her chilled mouth, and spread out towards her cheeks before it fades into the night air. Her spine is tingling. Some of his jacket zipper pulls clink, and the leather creaks, and it is very nice having a warm barrier close in between her and the rest of November.

She eases her lips apart and senses him catch her top one between both of his own. Hands-his hands are up and pressing her hair against the sides of her jaw. She was right: his palms are ice. But she doesn't want him to move.

When he does, she opens her eyes in time for a gust of wind to slice between them. She huddles back against him, into the smell of the leather. His chest gives a jolt when he takes a sharp breath in and wraps his arms around her shoulder blades to pull her close.

He brushes her with his lips and she feels them spring back, gentle but deliberate. There is a full second of curled leaves hissing across the porch before he comes back to meet her, for real this time, and she holds him there, relishing in the heat of his mouth. He stays, suspended. Then he steps away, but still his breath keeps the cold at bay while he rubs his nose against hers.

"That better?" he murmurs.

"If anyone asks, I saw nothing."

"Good." He puts his hands back at her waist, giving her a bit more freedom to sway.

"So I'm wondering something."

"What's that?"

"What was Bid-A-Basket?"

He frowns in thought. "Your classic case of Darwinism."

"Okay, but does it count as a date?"

"Why, do you want it to count?" Yes, she is going back to this pointless debate, but only out of curiosity. He can stop grinning like that, now.

"I want to know what it was, to you."

"I think you already know what it was to me. The question is…" He kisses the corner of her mouth. "What do you think about it?"

The sidewalks in Stars Hollow were usually lively on the weekends, but everyone was off finishing their picnics that day. It was breezy, but a pleasant temperature, and she could walk next to Jess without bumping her knee into his basket.

"Half pepperoni was definitely the right decision," she told him.

"Would I steer you wrong?"

She was waiting for her socks to start rubbing the backs of her ankles raw. It almost always happened when she did a lot of walking with Dean. But she was taking shorter steps today and so far, nothing.

She stepped ahead of Jess to get the full picture of his hand engulfing the thin, pale basket handles. "So, you're really keeping that."

"Makin' me read Ayn Rand and now you're gonna deny me a keepsake. I see how it is."

"Well they already make cigarette cases, and I think that's about all you'd need it for."

"Fair. But, consider this." Poor basket. It never asked to get swung around like that. "I'm alone in the woods, and some big bad wolf decides to get fresh with me. I think this'll at least knock out a fang, if I aim it right."

They slowed to a stop and Jess looked overhead at the sign to the bookstore. "So. You still wanna check it out?"

"Uh, sure. Unless you're busy…"

"I'm not busy. Are you busy?"

"No."

"Don't have to go hook up with Dean?"

Knowing him, he was probably at home still fuming. Let him wait. "No."

"Well let's get to it, then."

This happened every time. She'd promise herself that she was just going to browse, but not buy anything. But look, there was a Norton Critical Edition of Candide. And yes, of course she had a copy of Jane Eyre already, but she'd lent it to Dean early on, in a heady fantasy of being able to discuss books together. He not only didn't finish it, but she wasn't sure if he even knew where it was.

She never meant to, but it was hard to remember to keep up a conversation when there were so many books, just a few feet from her hands and eyes at all angles. Mom avoided going with her to bookstores for this exact reason.

But it turned out Jess wasn't like her mom. He didn't shadow her, or complain about wanting a Cinnabon, or suggest that she send over some tips to Guantanamo Bay because he'd never do this to her, even if they were in a Famous Footwear during boot season. Instead he was off in some other aisle, and she was in the Classics section minding her own business. That is, until she felt his presence over to her left, sidling along the shelves with the basket still in hand. He eyed the stack of books she was balancing in one arm, against her chest.

"Well, you certainly don't mess around."

Five new books was probably enough for today. "I had a short-lived pony phase before I found my purpose."

He paused with a hand hovering over the tower. "May I?"

"Sure."

He put the basket on the Shakespeare shelf and slid the topmost book on her stack into his waiting palm. "The Children's Hour." She followed his dark eyes as they skated across the back cover. "With adult content, no less."

"It's for my mom."

"Your house must have quite the book club." He flipped it over and replaced it, cover side up.

"Not really. She reads a lot of Jane magazine and celebrity tell-all books. But sometimes I write her lists of recommendations."

He raised an eyebrow. "And?"

"She thinks I'm kidding, so she writes me ones back. Apparently Anne Heche could have shared more about her alter ego Celestia, but her memoir is still a satisfying read."

"So you get your reading tastes from your dad, then."

"I don't know. I don't think so." She didn't expect to be talking about this with Jess, of all people. The surprises kept coming. "Last time he was here he did bring me The Compact Oxford English Dictionary, but only because I dropped the hint."

"Fun times. Does he come around often?"

She thought about changing the subject. "Not so much. I wish he did, though."

Dean thought her dad was cool. And he was right, and she knew she was lucky that her boyfriend got along with her parents. But when she told Dean she missed her dad, he nodded and furrowed his brow until she ran out of new ways to phrase it and went back to asking about Taylor's new marketing scheme. It wasn't Dean's fault that Mr. Forester worked in Hartford and came home every night.

"Yeah, dads are shitty," said Jess. "I mean, they're prick-disappointing. I probably shouldn't swear in front of you."

"And why's that?"

"I don't know, maybe you'll shatter into a thousand pieces."

"I am a person, you know." But hearing profanity in Jess' voice gave her that thrilling sense of suspended emptiness in her stomach, like she was in the middle of the drop on the Thunderbolt at Six Flags. It must have been at least a few years since she last went.

He reached over and plucked A Farewell to Arms in paperback from the overcrowded shelf, accentuating the move with a click of his tongue.

"Where are you taking that?" she said, watching him head towards the front of the store. He wasn't stealing it, was he?

"Gonna buy it." He turned on his heel to face her and continued walking backwards, waving the book in a taunting kind of way.

"But I thought you said you had all of Hemingway's novels." She followed after him.

"I do. Just so happens this one's yours."

"Oh, no-you don't have to-" She skidded to a stop on the carpet. "-and after the pizza, and the basket. It's too much. But thank you." She'd tried to pay for the pizza earlier, but he hadn't let her. Now a book? Why?

"And I talked to you."

"What?" She watched him lazily flip the book from palm to palm.

"I bought a basket full of E. coli, but I got to talk to you. Those things at least cancel each other out."

She still didn't get where all this was coming from, this actual kindness, for once. "Well. I'm sure the library has it."

"Or you can borrow mine."

"Oh. Okay." Maybe he felt bad about writing in Howl, and this was payback. The bell over the door jingled, drawing her attention outside. "Wow, I didn't realize the sun went down already. I tend to lose track of time in here." Mom-and Dean-were probably wondering how long it took to eat the contents of a basket the size of an envelope, especially when none of it was worth touching. "I should go."

"You think Dean would go for a ransom note? I'm sure this place has magazines." He gave all of his focus to wedging the book back among the other Hemingways, as if pranking her boyfriend was the most casual of afterthoughts.

"Hilarious."

"I'd make it tasteful."

"I'll see you later, Jess." She readjusted the grip on her books and reached into her coat for her money. "This was fun."

"Yeah?" He should smile like that more often. Taylor and everyone might be friendlier.

"Yeah."

"Well, don't forget to mention the graffiti lesson when people ask."

"Ooh! I could try to get spray paint on my hands, somehow. Just to really sell it."

He nodded once. "I think that'd be wise."

Silently, they waited next to each other in line, even though Jess wasn't buying anything. She turned down his offer to walk her home. After all, the worst threat in Stars Hollow was still carrying a picnic basket, and he lived in the complete opposite direction.

The sidewalks were well-lit but still empty, and she had to admit she liked the solitude; it was better for thought processing. The books in her paper shopping bag felt cumbersome, but important. Speaking of: what if Jess did himself a complete disservice by skimming through The Fountainhead, and lied to her about finishing it? He wouldn't. Right?

Then there was the question of what he looked like, reading. If she was in the middle of one of her Russian novels, sometimes her mom had to say, then sing, then shout Rory's full name before she looked up:

"Wow, that's gotta be a good one. You have book face again, babe."

Did Jess get book face? His own version of it, at least? Not everyone did-Madeline and Louise probably got tabloid face, and nothing more-but for someone like Jess, who cared about plot lines and word choice, it had to register in his eyebrows or the way he set his mouth that he'd been lost to the narrative, and nothing short of another shove in the lake could bring him back. She'd have to see if she could recognize it sometime.

The weight of the books was making her hyperextend her arm. Next time she should bring a backpack. Wincing, she rubbed the crease of her elbow and switched the bag to her other hand.

She hadn't been around boys much, except for at school. There was Dean, of course, but the next closest thing to a regular male friend-type presence would have been Tristan, and that was giving him too much credit.

Both were easy enough to figure out, in their own ways. Dean was dependable: for changing the water bottle, and having softball twice a week, and only liking the brown sugar cinnamon kind of Pop-Tarts. And Tristan was all flash, always slinking around for attention.

Jess was different. "Mysterious" was so clichéd that she cringed even thinking it, but for weeks he'd been a complete nuisance to Luke and everyone else, and then today he'd asked what Chilton was like, and almost sort of apologized for ditching the dinner at her house his first weekend in town. Maybe more people needed to stop assuming they knew who he was, and get to know the actual Jess.

Even though he was still antagonizing Dean, she knew Dean was being kind of judgmental, too. Saying Jess was trouble, when he wasn't. Chalk outlines didn't hurt anybody. And he'd given back what he'd stolen. Anybody would've been mad, to have a mom who didn't care and then get pulled away from home, like it was a punishment. If someone took her away from Lane, and she couldn't go to the Firelight Festival anymore or get her coffee at Luke's? She'd probably do some crazy stuff, too.

Her mom might not take her book recommendations seriously, but Jess-Jess was someone who might. That was why, after her mom ambushed her at home with a diatribe against him, and she felt the suffocating need to get right back out of the house, she started making a list in her head while she stormed off: David Copperfield, and Ulysses, and maybe he'd try Madame Bovary with a little coaxing. And later that night, in bed and staring up at her ceiling, she kept leaning over for the promotional Harvard notepad on her nightstand so she could write more titles.

She filled a page, front and back, before her eyes started to burn and tingle with exhaustion.

She tucks her hands inside his jacket collar, against his shirt. "I thought you were interesting."

"You should ask the school counselor to read you my progress reports sometime. You'd get a lot more mileage outta those adjectives."

She feels her shoulders hunch with the force of her sigh. "Jess."

"What? It's true."

"I went on the picnic with you because it was part of the rules, yes."

"And you could've broken them if you wanted to." He has his eyes on her neck, and takes a hand off her waist to brush her hair back over her shoulder.

"But-listen, please."

He raises both eyebrows and lightens his tone. "Ears wide open, ma'am."

"Nobody really gave you a chance. And I wanted to be someone who did."

He stands back, cups his hands around his mouth, and blows. "Alright, I think all my fingers are completely numb," he says, shaking them out. "I can probably manage some conversation with your mom, as long as you put mini marshmallows in my cocoa."

She can't help smiling, even through it strains her cheeks. "As many as you want."