Know I love you all I can. - Sleeping in a Car, The Staves

March 2017, Stars Hollow
Week 25

She's on her old bed. The weather outside is chilly, but the rays of sun through the window bakes whatever it lands on. Things are as they used to be on the surface. Her old furniture, even the quilt on the bed. It seems like any of the thousands of past afternoons spent in this place. She and Jess are dog-sitting while Lorelai and Luke are visiting April.

She's sitting back against the headboard, reading the edited copy of chapter five of her own manuscript. Jess's comments in the margins are making her increasingly displeased with the order of the book at large. Turns out telling your own story from beginning to proverbial end is hard. Your first memories aren't even yours but scaffolded by your parents' stories. And it makes the chapters feel uneven. She's annoyed at the script's ability to be done at one point and then nowhere near it later. Doesn't seem fair that it can change on its own, like some living being. Jess's notes are constructive but doesn't address the overall problem she experiences. He's either being kind or doesn't see it. It is possible his head is busy elsewhere, it's a marvel she's doing this today herself, she's not up for it and wants to do something else; Re-read something off her old shelves or even just stare at the dust in the air, the blue sky outside the window. Maybe it's just one of those days, or maybe she's preparing for what's to come. She checks her watch, not time yet.

There are two books by Hemingway on her bed stand, and she's sick enough off her own manuscript to put it down in exchange for them being within reach; A Moveable Feast that Jess got her way back when he was trying to convince her, and a poetry collection she owned long before that. She picks up the latter. Her relationship with poetry is much more on the sensory plane than one might expect, she likes the feeling of a book in her hands even on the rare occasion when she's not up for reading, and she loves looking at the pages, the graphic of them, the way the words are allowed their own shrine in the space of big margins, even if some of them are crap. She prefers other poets by far, but she likes his poetry better than his fiction, and his writing better now in general. She has a feeling that her issues with him stems from him being so hard to talk to, so to speak; so little said. Or that she's angry with him for throwing his life away. But she likes the fact that he was a poet at one point, there's a distinct puppy-like quality to a man writing bad poetry, something his machismo persona could use in her humble opinion.

She listens to Jess rummage around the back, he has a list of things to do around the house. The sound of him being busy outside, while she's on her bed reading takes her back to that day when she'd landed him the chore of cleaning the rain-gutters, with the backhanded motive to get her mom to like him. Even now she winces at the awkward plan, as well as how she stubbornly refused to admit what she already knew. No. Or yes, she was being stubborn, but mostly scared; of what it would mean to admit it, of who it would hurt, of who would have to do the hurting. So, she sat on her bed, trying to read, but unable to focus. Now the sound of him working comforts and calms her instead of upsetting or distracting her, and she listens for the simple pleasure of it. Him being here, hers.

Paul Anka barks and the gravel of the driveway is pushed over with a crunch and an engine turns off. Birds chirp. The door bells rings, and it's not until then that she draws the correct conclusion from the sounds she just registered. Darn. She pushes herself off the bed, and hurries to open the door, before Jess has to.

She hasn't seen her father since November, so the time has come. She usually doesn't take the initiative herself, that fight went out of her long ago, but she does miss him, still, and occasionally that feeling coincides with him calling. This time it was a bit different. She'd been preoccupied with everything new, and when he called she went cold at the realization that she hadn't told him. It was like one of those nightmares you have in which you've forgotten something big and obvious, except real. She scheduled a lunch date with him as soon as she was going to be in Connecticut, still without telling him though, sometimes she baffles herself. They were supposed to meet at the Gazebo, but she should've known he wouldn't be able to resist ringing this particular doorbell.

"You're pregnant." He says as soon as he's given her a once over, smiling as ever though.

She looks down. It's been a while since she could wear her normal pants and she's currently in pair of tights from the maternity section with a tunic for a top, but still feels small, like she might've just put on some extra weight. She realizes that it would probably be pretty obvious to anyone who hadn't seen her for a while. Her bad conscience jabs her gut again.

"Yeah. I'm sorry I didn't tell you." She pauses slightly to search his face for signs of a negative reaction, but he only looks surprised at this point. She takes the opportunity to squeeze out the rest of her so-called explanation. "At first, we wanted to wait until we were more sure it was going to happen, and then it wasn't that much of a wait for the ultrasound, and after that, I just dropped the ball."

"It's alright. But you have to tell me more about it at lunch."

"Absolutely. Shall we?"

"We shall, but hey, don't I get to meet your guy first?"

Shoot. Another oversight, this one might have been more intentional, in that she's purposefully avoided considering the possibility. Was sort of hoping he wouldn't ask. It's not that she doesn't want them to meet per se. But she doesn't know what her father knows. What he remembers from way back, or what her mother might have told him whenever they last spoke. She doesn't keep track of that either, seems better to let sleeping dogs lie. On all fronts. Unfortunately, that also means she has a hard time forecasting the outcome of situations involving said dogs, and she does hate not being prepared. She smiles tightly.

"Sure, hang on. Jess! Could you come here?"

There's a muffled thud from the back and a low mumble, presumably swear-words, from where Jess is struggling with the water bottle, then steps and a moment later he appears at the corner of the porch. He halts at the sight of Christopher, but it probably takes an expert to notice. It doesn't escape her attention either that Christopher looks intently at Jess as he walks across the porch. Jess wipes his hands on his pants before reaching for Christopher's.

"Mr. Hayden, nice to meet you. I didn't know you were coming here, I would've-"

"I've always been bad at following instructions." Christopher says. "In this case I might've broken the rules to get a chance to meet you." He shakes Jess's hand. "I understand you're related to Luke. It shows."

A slight look of puzzlement grazes Jess's face before he replies, with a steady smile.

"Thank you."

She weighs between her feet. Can't really figure out her father's real intentions with this little surprise visit, he's all smiles, as always, but there's a devious streak to him that she's never grown to be able to predict the turns of.

"Now that we're all acquainted, we should get going." She tries and grabs her coat.

"Just a moment, honey." Christopher isn't going to make this easy and keeps his attention on Jess. "I'm told you're in publishing. How's the money?"

"Uhm, enough."

"Enough to raise a kid?"

She winces, and Jess frowns but controls it before it's obvious and answers curtly.

"It won't be fancy, but we'll make due."

It hits her that she hasn't considered, no, strike that, she hasn't worried about money in connection to this. How is that possible? She's felt, perhaps groundlessly safe and she knows that it's because of her family. She may not always see eye to eye with her grandma, but she counts blindly on her loyalty. She and her father don't even see each other regularly but she wouldn't hesitate to turn to him in a crisis. And she understands that Jess hasn't thought like that. He's counted on them having to get by on his paycheck, he's probably looked into financial plans, maybe even other professions for them to make this work. It's surreal to consider, because they are tight. In ways she feels like they never left that close embrace they were in the night she told him. She's been clinging to him since then and he to her, yet there are things she hasn't picked up on, and obviously vice versa.

"Come on, dad, let's go."

"Alright, alright. Nice to meet you. We'll talk more next chance we get."

Jess nods. She's missed parts of his experience regarding this pregnancy, he hasn't told her everything. At the same time, she's actually warmed at the realization that he's obviously thought about this, carried it around, not wanting to burden her. She steps up to him and kisses him goodbye, a bit longer than she might have without that insight.

She and Christopher get to walking towards the center of town. The sun is warm, but occasionally gusts of wind hit them as reminders of how far they have to go.

"How's your mom?" He goes. She glances at him, but his eyes are fixed ahead.

"Happy." Rory answers, maybe a tad quickly. "Why? When did you last speak?"

"It's been a while. I actually did check my email. Last thing I could find was from when Richard died."

She doesn't ask what kind of message it was, and he doesn't tell.

They're approaching the Gazebo.

"So, what fine establishment shall have our business today? What are you in the mood for?" He asks her.

She taps her finger on her lower lip, trying to remember which cuisine Al is up to these days.

"Actually," she goes after a few beats, "I wouldn't mind Luke's."

"Really?"

"Yeah. It's perfect actually. Luke's not there to guilt-trip me about my fries-habit."

"He's a handful, huh?"

"Yeah, I mean, he's just being protective." Her speech slows some when she realizes this subject might be a slippery slope. "And always sort of surly about it. It's just his way."

They grab a table by the window and Ceasar glances nervously at her as she puts down her elaborate and clearly unhealthy order.

"Just tell him I ate plenty, if he asks." She adds at the end, not managing to change Ceasar's expression though. "Or it'll just be our secret."

He nods and heads into the kitchen. Christopher chuckles, then clears his throat.

"So, kid, when are you due?"

"June."

"I'll be a grandpa."

"That's how it works."

"Don't name the kid from my side of the family, 'kay? Nothing but Straubs and Ursulas."

"And Christophers." She adds somewhat tenderly. "But we haven't decided yet, we're still stuck between Beat writers and members of The Clash."

"Emily must be thrilled."

Rory chuckles.

"She's mostly upset that we don't seem too keen on an official naming, or a wedding."

"She would be." Christopher allows. "What's the deal with you and him? Did I imagine that you used to date before?"

"Nope, you didn't imagine it, you never met him though. It was right after the big blow-up of 2002."

Christopher stops smiling.

"That early?"

"Yup. It didn't last long. Many years past. We reconnected."

He stops her with a gesture, the pieces unfortunately falling into place.

"Wait a minute; Jess? Luke's... nephew? Your arm?"

She goes cold and immediately steels herself, straightens in her chair and puts up a hand to stop him.

"Listen. I'm going to indulge you because you don't know, which is better than for example being obstinate or locked in old habits, but to tell you the truth I'm actually a bit tired of having to say what I'm gonna." She takes a breath to see if he's still with her. He is, he's watching her with a serious expression. "Here's what you need to know: Yes, it's the same guy. But that accident was a Collab of stupid from the both of us. And our relationship at the time for that matter. Because we were kids." She knows that's it; She'd had one foot in the past and one in her fragile future the whole time, and he'd been unable to trust her, hid himself and things from her. She can't help thinking how he's still able to do that but doesn't have time to get stuck in that at the moment. "We are together now, however, and good with the forgiveness and stuff, it's the forgetting I could use some help with, you see?"

"Not really."

"Don't voice concern, I've heard enough of that." She explains. "I can use faith though, support, trust. I love him for good reason and a bit without reason at all. He never stopped loving me. We're having a baby together. The only possible direction is forward at this point."

There's something about the look in his eyes that makes her certain he has more objections, but he surrenders anyway.

"Well, I guess I can relate to the loving you part."

Their power balance is uneven, has been since she was in her twenties, or possibly earlier, but she didn't take advantage of it back then. She's still not too fond of doing it. A part of her still wishes he could act the protective father, no matter the subsequent trouble. Of course, now she has someone else's need to use it for, if need be.

She smiles.

"It is relatable."

The food arrives, and Christopher picks up a fry, but stops mid-motion.

"You happy?"

She winces, and he frowns at her expression.

It's a strange happiness. Not uncomplicated for them as separate individuals, she knows that. He'll get into quiet, grumpy moods, where she'll have to shake him verbally or move him physically, usually by cornering him in a hug, to make him communicate himself out of them. Sometimes it takes longer too, since him being quiet isn't anything outside of the ordinary.

And she? Well… Occasionally there'll be a rift in the space time continuum and the past will flicker with varying intensity over the present. She'll feel like she's seventeen, nineteen, twenty-one, and he'll be seventeen, nineteen, twenty-one, and, oh god, she'll have gotten pregnant by her high school boyfriend, and it won't matter that she's thirty-two for it. In her dark fantasies he'll have done what his father did to him and left, but even when she imagines him as he truly is; present, it's still a kind of nightmare, hers and her mother's as well as her grandmother's trauma reimagined in facing mirrors forever and ever.

She'll shake it off. Sometimes. Most of the time. Sometimes she can't, and she'll feel bad for no good reason. Sometimes she'll miss Logan. Or, not Logan specifically, but his ability to rationalize everything, boil down every accident, every mistake to fate, destiny, and the way it should be. And how he could convince her of anything, how she would let him.

Jess doesn't do that. Instead he'll say "okay" when she shares her jumbled feelings and look at her with those serious eyes of his, and the following days he'll work harder. He'll handle the housework and shoo her off if she tries to interfere. She'll watch him and think that he's earning his own existence like he told her she didn't have to, and it'll break her heart a little, but she'll still let him, because there's no convincing him otherwise. And he'll crash on the couch, head tilted back, eyes closed, and she'll climb onto his lap, into his arms which he'll fold around her, and press her face to his neck. And she'll be fine again.

She sighs.

"It's just that I don't think happy covers it. Not in any direction." She's trying to explain the restlessness she feels. Happy sometimes means being alive with euphoria, and sometimes resting, completely content. She experiences both plenty lately, but it never lasts through the every-day. Those are imprinted with the buzzing frustration of writing and not knowing; loving, hoping, worrying and not knowing. Living a happy ending that she's accepted won't end, but instead generate new or continued stories. "I've read books, I know how it's supposed to go but I- I just don't know how I'll feel inside. And I guess I just wanna acknowledge that I don't really have any idea what to expect."

"That's very mature of you." Christopher says. "Not that I'm surprised. You're your mother's daughter after all."

There are many things she could tell him. That might be it; She's scared that she takes after him more. And it feels both like grief and relief; The realization that she and her mother, as close as they are, aren't all that alike. Grief, because she thought so for so long, wanted to be her mother, so it makes it feel like she lost something, time, if nothing else. Relief, because she could never really measure up, and yeah, she knows how weird it seems. She was going to have the great adventure her mother never got to have. But impulsive, it hasn't really worked for her. At least not in the sense she was hoping it would. So instead, she worked, and struggled, but without it yielding anything tangible.

She vented to Jess, on one occasion when she felt extraordinarily wrong in her skin:

"When I think of her, I'm thinking Wonder Woman. And I was a sidekick, at best."

"Well, maybe she had to be. Maybe it looked like an adventure from the outside. Maybe she was scared."

"And did it anyway. Brave."

"Yeah, but I bet there were times she would have traded it for feeling safe for a bit, for your sake if nothing else."

She teased him for sounding like her mother, but he, just like Lorelai, had a point.

She's so aware of what traits and behaviors she and her mother share and in which areas they're hopelessly separated. Sometimes it seems the only difference is that she would ask for help and Lorelai wouldn't, but that little thing has created great divides at times. And maybe the alternative scares her a bit too. Being just like Lorelai.

But she doesn't tell Christopher any of that. He dips the fry in ketchup, still without eating it.

"But what about the money? 'Make due' with my grandkid isn't exactly the level of comfort I like to work with. I'd like to help."

"And that would be welcome."

"Good." Christopher smiles. "We'll talk more on it later but now I'd like to see what's so terrible about these fries."

Her father follows her back, hugs and kisses her and drives off. She remains in the driveway for a few minutes, watching the dust settle. All in all it's been a nice afternoon. He's kept any disappointment at bay, and it's been good to tell him everything, a weight lifting. But her happiness is as always, when it comes to Christopher, wistful, instead of satisfying. Loving him is never without pain, and the more she feels one, she feels the other. A reminder of what they'll never have. But. It is the best they can do. So, she smiles. She walks around the yard and finds Jess and Paul Anka at the back, leeward of the house, where the former is busy trimming the rampant hedges at the edge of the garden, while the latter is spread out in the grass enjoying the afternoon sun. She sits down next to the dog and strokes his fur.

"How was lunch?" Jess asks with a quick glance.

"Pretty good. We went to Luke's."

He smirks.

"Planning on driving him crazy with that when he gets back?"

"I wouldn't stab Ceasar in the back like that." She smiles broadly at her own joke and looks at him for validation, but he's focused on what he's doing.

"Any more jabs from absentee fathers you had to defend me from that I should know about?" He goes after a moment, tone artificially casual.

She tilts her head, her father really got to him.

"No." She pats him on the cheek and ignores that he shies away slightly from the touch. "He was on his best behavior after we left here." There's no point in mentioning Christopher's skepticism when she unveiled who Jess was. "We mainly talked about the baby. In fact-" She goes on without thinking about it until the words are already on her tongue. "He offered to set up a trust fund for him."

He lowers the shears and turns to actively regard her.

"What d'you say?"

"'Thank you, daddy'?" She responds lightly and scratches Paul Anka's ear.

"Huh."

It's interesting how well she's learned to read that sound of his. She looks at him and he has returned to his task, but his expression has definitely hardened.

"What's wrong with that?" She asks.

"What did he want in return? Friday night dinners?" His motions are sharp.

"Jess..."

He interrupts her by getting up off his knees and collecting his tools.

"You know what? It's none of my business."

"What do you mean none of your business?" She gets up too and Paul Anka lifts his head to look at them. "It's your child."

"Coulda fooled me." He spits and starts walking away.

"Hey!" She throws after him, but he doesn't stop.

He continues up the porch and puts the tools at Luke's work desk like that's really all he's doing. She follows him and grabs his arm to turn him to her. He sighs before speaking, slowly, supposedly to control his temper.

"Look. It's not even about the money. Obviously, I want what's best for this baby, and we'd be dumb to not accept help, it's just..." He takes a breath and looks away, then back with raised eyebrows. "You didn't even ask me. And it's not just about this. Rory, between you and your mother - which by the way, I do not take issue with – and Emelie and Christopher throwing themselves over each other to help, to make this right..." He points between them. "It should be you and me turning this into what we want it to be."

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying that you might not even be aware that you're doing it, but you're making it so that you have no use for me."

The words hit her hard, and she quietly gasps at the impact. They are too close, considering what she's been thinking about and discussing with her mother, and that burns, but at the same time they are so wrong. Even if she'd wanted to do this on her own she's not sure she could have left him. Hasn't she needed him enough, too much even? And hasn't it been painfully obvious the last months? That's how it's felt on her end and being told that she's pulling away infuriates her.

"Excuse me?" She hisses.

"If our child gets money from your dad, care and support from your mom... What am I good for?"

She drags a hand across her face, struggling to keep her voice even.

"Holy cow," she mumbles. "I am actually so angry with you right now, that I think I'm literally seeing red. You of all people should know-" She actually has to pause for a breath.

She stares at him as she remembers where they are, who could be listening. She shakes her head and promptly walks inside the house. She heads into the living room throwing looks towards Babette's house to check for spies, but there's no one there except for the garden gnomes. A wet nose pushes against her hand, and she instinctively pets Paul Anka before turning toward Jess who's hovering by the staircase. His expression is still hard, and he gestures to mark his words.

"I'm just struggling to find my place in this. It's a situation that should concern the two of us primarily, and you keep inviting more and more of your family into it." He bites his lip and exhales through his nose before going on. "That's what I mean when I say it's none of my business. This is all about you and your family."

"Jesus Jess!" Her voice is louder now. "You're so wrong it's scary."

He glares at her and puts a finger to his chest.

"I haven't dragged anyone else into this."

"Yeah!" She takes a few steps closer to him. "And why is that?" It's not a question.

He shakes his head.

"Why the hell would I want my whack-job of a family anywhere near this?"

"That's not the reason and you know it!" Her chest hurts as her words make their way up her throat, and she has to raise her voice just to get them out. It feels like crying. "Why don't you just admit that you're scared witless? That you wanna run away?" Her voice breaks.

His eyes widen.

"That is the last thing I wanna do!" He sounds panicked, and it scares her plenty.

They both fall silent, staring at each other. She steps up and grabs his wrists instinctively, flight fluttering in her chest as it must in his. Can't let it happen. She forces her heartbeat to slow with a few deep breaths. She starts speaking, eyes fixed to his chest rather than his face.

"We will not do this. We will not perpetuate that you can't count on people, that you have to go it alone, that you have to say no to kindnesses 'cause of pride, or suspect people's motives. We won't do it, because as much as I love you-" She steps closer and puts her forehead to his, emphasizing her words. "And I love you so much - I don't want our son to have to be like you."

She allows it to hover between them for as long as she can bear, then looks to his face, reluctant. He clenches his jaws, expression serious, tired, all fight gone out of him.

"My dad can never right the wrongs he did me," she goes on, "but I'm not so petty that I'd exclude him from his grandchild's life because of it." She tilts her head forcing him to look at her. "It's not about us owing him, it's about him owing me. And he's had no way of repaying, repairing, until now. This is important for him too." She hasn't spoken the words before, not even in her head, but they are true. "So, here's what's gonna happen: we will accept this, because it is for him." She nods downwards. "And you will stop fretting about it. Because I need you, in every way that I don't need money, or my mother," her voice trembles again, "and I need you to give him everything that my dad couldn't give me. You hear me?" She takes a shaky breath.

He blinks but doesn't look away. His voice is just above a whisper.

"Yes."

"Good." She manages and walks off.

She gets into her room, and barely closes the door before she stifles a sob, pressing her hand to her mouth. It never turns into much, a few tired tears running down her face, it's how she's cried over her father since she grew up, in fact, it's rare that tears are even involved. That's what happens when you finally give up, where there's little hope there's little pain, at least not the sharp kind, more like an ache on occasion. She curls up on the bed and stares at the wall for a few minutes.

There's a knock at the door and she doesn't protest when he enters, doesn't really know why she shut it to begin with. The mattress shifts as he lies down behind her, and she feels his tentative hand on her shoulder. She takes a deep breath and reaches to grasp it. At the touch he kisses her neck, still quiet, but there's a haste to it that has her turning around capturing his mouth with hers. His hands are stroking her face, her neck, her hair. Not apologizing, but something like it.

At once she's all tenderness, regret and gratitude. That he came for her instead of getting back to work, as he could have, which would be understandable under the circumstances. She sniffles quietly and the kisses taste of salt from her earlier tears. She opens her eyes and looks at him. His gaze wanders her face along with his fingers and meets hers after a beat. He dries her tears with the side of his hand. She pushes his name though her lips in a little sob.

"I'm sorry."

He closes his eyes.

"Stop it."

He kisses her again, with no apparent indication of stopping. Her hands drag down his body, and his breath turns ragged.

It escalates quickly. She's trying not to use sex as a distraction so much these days, they don't need it and it brings back bad memories for her anyway, but sometimes, like now, it's difficult to disregard its painkilling abilities. There's a moment right in the middle of it when he demands her attention, slowing his motions to a halt and tapping her lips with his fingers.

"Hey." He whispers sharply. She looks up into his eyes slightly reluctant, a bit annoyed at the interruption. He stares at her though, serious, while struggling to stay still and pace his breath.

"I'm not going anywhere. I'm staying. You got that?"

There's a sting in her throat– a tightness in her chest. It's the acknowledgement of her very real, albeit irrational and therefor unacceptable, fear, and the emotion at his adamant promise. She can't avoid it when he's inside her, can't shield herself at that point and sort of hates it. She swallows thickly.

"Yes."

After, they're side by side, tightly to fit on her old bed. She's trembling slightly. He sticks his arm under her neck and pulls her closer, putting his lips to her temple.

"I don't want him to be like me either," he whispers on his slowing breaths.

More pain. From pity this time.

"That's not-" she starts, halts, and adjusts her position turned toward him before continuing. "You can balance anyone's checkbook. You know everyone's debts. You carry everything with you. You build on your pain. But that's your groundwork, and it might not hurt anymore, but it did at one point and he doesn't have to feel that. He doesn't have to make the best of a bad situation, to build on being broken – He can be whole."

He's just silent in response. Lies still for about a minute before pulling the blanket over them.

Even later they're still in bed, she has her head on his chest, ear to his heartbeat. Paul Anka is enjoying getting his ears scratched while lying across their legs. She's getting hungry but is, just like him it seems, stalling having to get up to make dinner. The sky is orange.

"What about Richard?" He mumbles.

She blinks in surprise and answers as a smile spreads across her face, and maybe a little bit inside too, as she understands what he's referring to.

"That's a nice thought, but... I don't know, feels like it'd be a bit too much about me."

"I don't mind."

She squeezes him tighter, gives something back.

"Well, I think we should set the bar a bit higher than 'don't mind'. How 'bout Jack?"

"We could tell Paris it's after Kerouac." He suggests, voice almost gleeful.

"That would drive her crazy." She laughs.

"Good." He sighs. "Although, maybe we should set the bar a bit higher than 'just to drive Paris crazy'."

"Okay, but you're pushing it. Hey, speaking of pranks, what if we named him Lucas?"

He chuckles but seems to consider it.

"Too mean. But..." He pauses. "William."

"As in Luke's- your grandfather?"

He shrugs.

"Yeah. I didn't know him, but consensus seems to be he was a good guy, and Luke- but I don't know. Maybe it's a bit too much about me."

"Hey, Luke's mine too." She automatically objects. The sound of the name clicks into place. "And I actually love it. William. Will."

"Okay then. And we can tell Paris it's after Burroughs."