A/N: This is the final chapter, friends. Hope it feels right. As always, please R&R! Because some days I believe in that magic, but others I wonder if I've got any at all... Your words mean more than you know. I'll be thinking of you all on November 25th- see you on the other side of the redux. Love, Z

She had picked up the pieces. She had let Jess and Lorelai handle that terrifying room filled with all the People of Her Life, in capitals, and she'd dealt with disappointing her grandparents, again, and managed to square her shoulders and face the world and move forward with her life, again. It was painful, and there were nights when those feelings of self-doubt and self-blame crept quietly into her apartment, filling the corners of her living room and the corners of her consciousness until they pulled her under completely; nights where she slowly drowned in that feeling that she'd failed. But the sharp edges of those endless nights eventually blurred into the gentle white light of new mornings, and she'd make herself a cup of coffee and work on gluing herself back together again. Somewhere deep down, that steely Gilmore resolve was still intact within her. Her strength might ebb and flow but she was her mother's daughter, stubborn and determined as ever, and she let herself be forged by that fire.

Jess checked in. He called; he texted. There was always some pretense; some reason for the contact, but he was checking up on her, plain and simple. He knew he was, and she knew he was. She wasn't sure if he knew she knew he was… But he knew her, and he knew she wasn't obtuse. She guessed he must've thought it was worth it anyway. That she was worth it. That helping her see that someone, at least, believed she was worth staying for, was worth it.

There was the "emergency" at Truncheon that he'd needed her help with. The phone calls asking for advice on how to handle some issue with Matt, or asking if she had talked to Lorelai because he was worried about Luke, or the time he'd just dropped by her apartment, saying he didn't want to be alone that night.

That one she wasn't sure was made up though. He'd seemed just quiet enough and his eyes just haunted enough when he showed up on her doorstep, that she thought he really had needed her right then. They were sitting on her couch, halfway through a bottle of whiskey (top-shelf, a gift from her grandfather of all people, that had gone untouched for many, many months), before she realized with a start that it was the anniversary of Liz's death.

"It was this time last year, wasn't it?" she asked, realization sinking in.

He suddenly wouldn't meet her eyes, finding the ice in his glass unduly fascinating. She wasn't sure he was going to reply at all, and when he finally did, his voice was thick. "To the day."

Still looking down, he continued, "I was on the bus when Luke called me. I never pick up when I'm on the bus; I hate people who talk on their phones like they fucking own the place, but I picked up. That day, I picked up. Luke talked. I listened. I hung up and I swear I still can't figure out what happened the rest of that afternoon. I looked up and it was dark out and the driver was telling me we were at the end of the line. I got out and just started walking. I must've walked for hours. I remember feeling- suspended. Like all the meaning and purpose and sense in the city had just been drained out. The stopper finally pulled; all color bleached and blanched, bled out into some invisible, unreachable space. That morning, I'd been so sure I'd understood, that I had a handle on who I was and what that meant and how this fucking world was put together, until I wasn't. All that certainty, it just, turned off. And I was just left knowing that I'd misread it. I'd fucking misread all of it." He finally looked up at her and that haunted look was back again, so vulnerable and young and heartbreakingly lost.

"Jess," Rory breathed as she slid closer to him on the couch, needing to touch him.

"I didn't think today would be so hard. It didn't sneak up on me- I've been thinking about it all month, but I swear I felt fine. I felt like I had my head on straight again and it was making sense and I was focused, but somewhere between yesterday and today… I can feel her in my bones, Rory. I can feel her and I want her fucking gone but I'm so scared of what'll happen when she finally leaves."

His shoulders were shaking and he was panicking, anxious and desperate. Rory recognized that some of that slightly unhinged rambling came from too much alcohol but she also knew just as much of it came from too much sorrow, bottled up and stored away month after month, season after season. She knew what was in his bones: grief, tightly wound; stubbornly refused the right to unfold. The specter of loss. Haunted, indeed.

She pulled him close, snaking one hand around his torso and letting her other find the hair at the nape of his neck. She kissed his temple and whispered in his ear, "It's okay, Jess. It's okay."

She let his tears leak onto her shoulder, and he let her warmth, her solidity, envelope him. He wasn't sure he believed in forgiveness and he definitely didn't believe in divinity, but he was sure of his gratitude to whomever or whatever for granting him her, and he felt an unwitting plea slip silently out of him for absolution; for acceptance; for the strength to be better.

He finally pulled back and his eyes found hers in what felt like sacred space, a different type of time suspended. "You remember when you found me, at the cemetery? And you took my hand?" She nodded, almost imperceptibly, afraid to break the spell. "The spinning finally stopped when you did that. I don't know why and I know I don't have a right to fucking need that from you, but you were my anchor, Rory. You're my anchor."

She cradled his head in her hands and felt the sting of tears in her own eyes at his confession. "I'm here, Jess. I will always be here."

Words had never felt so inadequate to her. She was overwhelmed by the need for him to truly believe her, to believe he deserved to be wanted and needed but also every bit as much, he deserved to want and to need. That he could deserve her.

She closed the distance between them and placed her lips gently against his, angling up and against him, allowing everything she felt for him and wanted for him to build and find release in that moment. He kissed her back, all his tension and pain transforming into passionate, overpowering energy.

She ended up horizontal beneath him on the couch, meeting him touch for touch, back arching into him as his mouth found her neck, raising her hips up to counter his.

She knew they would never have been so bold if they hadn't been drinking, but also knew with every fiber of her being that this was right. They had weathered so much, waited so long, and endlessly endured the agony of denying themselves each other… It was no wonder they were combusting, catching fire, exploding, at that first touch of lips against lips. They belonged to each other. For better or for worse. They'd already done in sickness and in health; through thick and thin. She hoped to god they were ready to love and to cherish. Forever and ever, amen.

She was getting lost in the feeling of his body against hers and she knew if they didn't stop now, they wouldn't stop at all. Rory was sure, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that this was inevitable and undeniable, but she also knew she didn't want to waste the sanctity of their first time on a hazy, clouded night, when all of the details would come away smudged and blurred. She could imagine the feeling of sublime culmination- oh, of all-consuming consummation- as he finally entered her and how momentous and long-awaited and right that would feel, and she planned to hang on to that moment until death truly did do them part. She'd been waiting for it, consciously or unconsciously, since she was seventeen. She could wait just a little bit longer.

"Jess," she breathed. He brought his head back up level with hers, and she kissed him again, gentler than before, slowing their pace.

He let her, sensing her intention, and leaned his forehead against her. He asked quietly, "You wanna stop?"

She looked straight at him and he saw her eyes darken as she bit her lip. "No," she said and she kissed him again, not-so-gently, with the full force of her unresolved desire, "I don't want to stop." Any degree of coolness they'd briefly managed was quickly lost, but Rory attempted to regain her resolve once again, placing her hand against his chest, "But I think we have to."

Smiling for the first time all night, one of those rare, genuine, full-on, beautifully crooked smiles, Jess shook his head and whispered, "Come here," as he closed the distance between their lips one last time.

When their heartbeats had finally slowed and their breathing eventually evened, Jess spoke again, "I should probably…"

"Go?"

"Yeah."

"Oh." She paused, then said, "You don't… you don't have to."

"I don't?"

"No. You could… just…" she trailed off, suddenly hesitant to say the words; but he knew.

"Okay."

"Okay." She said, smiling, as her cheek found his chest again; arms wrapped securely around him, and his around her.

"And you're mine too, y'know," she murmured against his chest, words getting heavier as sleep started to claim her.

"Your what?" he asked, momentarily confused.

"My anchor, Jess. You're mine, too."