#but today is (ironically) my baby shower so I can't promise it'll be finished

[thejollyroger-writer]

Mixed-Up Metaphors, Messed-Up Makeup

a/n: this is the post-revival Gilmore Girls AU that nobody asked me to write (except Devon), written specifically for her birthday. so, @shireness-says​, this is for you. happy birthday, friend. 

Summary: Rory is pregnant, lost, and looking for something deeper to tie her to Storybrooke. (surprise: it’s Jess Mariano)

Rated G // 7K // also on ao3

(Thanks to @hollyethecurious​ and @let-it-raines​ for helping me figure this out and giving me someone to chat with about writing it, since I obviously couldn’t go to Devon this time) 

WEEK TEN

Jess Mariano never asks anything of her. Some days, Rory can swear that he’s the only person who wants nothing from her. And it is simply for this reason that she invites him to sit with her in her office as many days as he’s allowed, after meeting him for breakfast at Luke’s. Because, unlike everyone else in Stars’ Hollow, Jess seems content sitting in the corner of her office, reading his next book or tapping away on his laptop, working on his own novel, or on something else. 

Sometimes, when she knows she is going to have a particularly boring day, she asks him to come with her. Usually, she does not, and it is just another unspoken agreement for him to show up a few hours after breakfast, toting a to-go bag and a cup of coffee.

Usually, they sit in almost-silence, one of them playing some music softly in the background, every once in a while asking a question about word choice or the order of a sentence, or Jess reading a sentence or a section from that day’s selection. 

And then, the morning sickness starts. Usually, she is able to control it before she leaves to meet him for breakfast, hoping that he doesn’t realize her change in appetite. 

(He does. He just doesn’t say anything.) 

It’s not like she doesn’t want to tell him. Hell, there is the slight possibility that the baby is his anyway, after one of the few nights they spent together when she came back to Stars’ Hollow, nights that they have wordlessly decided to completely ignore but that sometimes still happen when she finds herself in his arms late at night, sometimes even forgetting how she got there. 

She just… doesn’t know how to tell him. Because what if it’s not his, which is just as likely? It’s not like she needs anything from him, expects anything from him, even if it is his. Though, she knows deep down, that no matter what the case is, if she told him that she wanted him to be a part of this child’s life — which she does — he would do it. 

That’s part of the reason she lo —

She cares about him so much. 

These are the thoughts swirling through her already-chaotic mind when she feels her stomach begin to churn, a feeling that she can sometimes control. 

This does not seem to be one of those times. 

Jess, of course, notices the change in her almost immediately — the way she is breathing, the redness of her face, her straighter posture, the moments of fear that pass through her eyes when she fears she may not be able to control it. 

“Are you alright?” he asks, finally breaking the thick silence that has fallen around her. In her chest, her heart pounds wildly, hard enough for her to feel it in her stomach, and all she can do before pushing herself out of the office chair and crossing the room, hoping to at least make it into the bathroom, is shake her head, trying to combat the tears that always come with her failing gag reflex. 

Shit. 

“Do you want my help?” he calls, and though she did not hear the pounding of his boots against the fake hardwood, he sounds much closer to the cracked bathroom door than his usual perch. 

“No!” 

(Didn’t people always say that they loved being pregnant? How is that the case when she has been starting every morning by losing the contents of her stomach? When she has felt nauseous non-stop for the last eight weeks? She thought this was supposed to be fun.) 

Her bathroom stay is short-lived, at least. (On the bright side of getting sick all the time is her stomach’s — the baby’s — ability to pick and choose what it wants to keep and what it wants to get rid of, and this morning is only seems angry about the apple she ate on her way over here. 

Ironic.)

She gives herself another minute to calm down, to splash cold water on her hands and her face and try to get her heart rate back to a normal human’s number. She’s so overwhelmed by making herself feel better that she almost forgets that he’s waiting for her outside the door, silent and patient and — why does he have to be like that? 

Slowly — oh my god, so slowly — she opens the door to the bathroom, as if putting off the action will somehow stop the conversation she knows she is about to have. (Maybe if I spend enough time in the bathroom, he’ll just… leave, she tells herself, but even as she has the thought, she shakes her head with the ridiculousness of it.) 

For a moment, he doesn’t say anything. She can’t even bring herself to look at him, putting all of her attention instead on her feet as they cross the worn-down floor back to her desk, left, right, left, right. 

And then… he still doesn’t say anything. He sits, silently, in his chair, and she can feel that his eyes never leave hers. But he says nothing, which manages to drive her absolutely insane, stuck with only her own thoughts and the pounding of her heart and that stupid rattling pipe in the corner, the cars on the street outside, the chattering of passerby, her blood rushing through her ears, that damn pipe — 

“I’m pregnant,” she says finally, the words practically exploding out of her. 

Silently, he nods, but she doesn’t miss the slight widening of his eyes, the gentle parting of his lips. 

She can swear that her heart actually stops beating. What if this is too much for him? What if I’ve just totally screwed up absolutely everything, and he’s going to pack up his things and leave, leave the office and leave Stars’ Hollow and never talk to me again— 

“Okay.” She almost doesn’t catch the word, barely more than a breath on his lips, but it is the brightness of his eyes that really catches her attention, suddenly, all at once. “Are you okay? What can I do to help?” 

She is useless against the way her jaw falls slack. “What?” 

He narrows his eyes at her, as if he doesn’t understand her confusion. 

“I mean, you’re sick, right? Is there anything I can do? Do you need some water, something to eat? Do you have a stash of Saltines somewhere?” 

She’s… 

Speechless. Shocked. In awe. Dumbstruck. Without words. 

Alright, so maybe with words. But certainly not the right ones. 

He’s… has he always been like this? Has he always cared so much? 

She knows the answer, though she also knows that she’s been trying to avoid the same knowledge for almost as long as she’s been back in Stars’ Hollow. Honestly, (though, really, she hates being honest with herself), it shouldn’t surprise her as much as it does, his heartwarming, caring demeanor, his immediate jump to help her, to be there for her. 

If there wasn’t a large wooden desk between them — if she even had the energy to jump up in the first place — she may have even found herself quickly crossing the room to kiss him. Maybe. 

For now, though, all she does is smile, reaching down to open the bottom drawer of her desk, where she pulls a water bottle and a pack of saltines from. 

He smiles back — warm, genuine, glad that she seems to be content at the moment. “Good,” he says, his attention moving back towards the book resting in his lap. “Let me know if you need my help.” 

It’s a loaded statement, and even as his eyes begin moving across the words on the page, Rory sits in her chair watching him, slowly eating a few saltines from the open pack. Does he know just how much that one question could mean? How many of those meanings did he actually mean? Is she overthinking this? 

Of course she’s overthinking this, and she knows that — and something about the shadow of a smirk that grows on his lips, his eyes still on the book as he turns the page, makes her pretty sure that he knows she’s overthinking it, too. 

WEEK 16

She’s been trying to ask Jess for help for two weeks now, since she decided this is something she wants to do. She just… doesn’t know how. Will he even want to do it? Will he be mad at her because she wants to do it? 

What will her mother think?

What will Logan think?

She’s taken to spending most nights with Jess in the apartment above Luke’s instead of back in her old bedroom, constantly under the watchful eyes of both Lorelai and Luke. Jess asking her if she’s eaten today is caring, done in a much less agitated tone, while all she gets at home is nagging and food shoved in her direction. 

“It’s almost as if your mother has forgotten what it’s like to be pregnant,” Jess tells her very helpfully one night after she came to the apartment with her laptop, her pajamas, and a brown paper bag full of vegetables that she knows her mother never ate while pregnant. 

“Well, I need her to remember,” Rory had huffed, falling backwards onto the couch, her hands on her stomach — a poise she’s found herself in more often lately, with the small human growing inside her just starting to make itself more obvious. 

At the moment, Jess has settled in at his spot at the counter, tossing together some sort of chicken stir-fry with ingredients that he found in the back of his freezer and the pantry. Rory never would have guessed just how much he liked to cook, especially wouldn’t have assumed that he’s so good at it — but she supposes it’s also something she’s never been able to take for granted, since everyone knows Lorelai is certainly no master chef. 

Can you help me with something? The words are on the tip of her tongue, begging to be released as she watches him expertly cut the chicken breasts into strips, a few strands of his now-longer hair falling away from his forehead. 

(She’s not sure how she feels about his hair, though she does appreciate the fact that he looks older, unsure of whether it’s because of the hair or the stubble or just his overall older-feeling aura. She hasn’t mentioned anything to him — it’s certainly not her place, as his… 

What are they, anyway? On the nights when her loneliness has been the strongest, she’s spent the night sharing his bed with him, not complaining when he rolled towards her in the middle of the night, wrapped his arm around her stomach, his breath on her back. But they haven’t discussed it, Rory not even sure that she wants to. Would it ruin the content feeling that washes over her when she walks into the apartment, when he smiles at her from across the room, when she secretly wakes when he does, much earlier than she needs to in order to help open the restaurant, and feels the hitching of his breath when he realizes that he has once again unconsciously wrapped himself around her?) 

“It’s hard to concentrate when you’re staring a hole through my head,” he says finally, not even raising his eyes from the cutting board as he breaks the almost-silence of the apartment. 

“Sorry,” she mumbles, but he just smiles. 

“Obviously you’re thinking about something.” 

It’s not a question, she can tell that much. He’s not really asking her to divulge whatever she is obviously thinking about, but she takes it as an invitation nonetheless. 

“I think I need to tell Logan.” 

This makes him stop working, set the knife down on the cutting board, turn his eyes up to meet hers. “Yeah?” 

She just nods. 

“If that’s what you want to do, I’m not going to talk you out of it.” 

“He’s going to want to know if it’s his.” 

Just as the words pass through her lips, she realizes that this very subject is something they haven’t discussed yet. Jess takes a deep breath, stepping away from the counter. For a moment, Rory fears the worst, that he is going to leave her with her spiraling thoughts — but instead he washes his hands in the sink before walking to her, reaching out to take her hands. His are cold, a side effect from the chicken that the hot water didn’t manage to wash away entirely, but Rory doesn’t really care — just the feel of them in hers warms her from the inside out. 

“He has a right to know that,” he says, trying not to let his own disappointment reach his face, Rory can tell somehow. 

“Do you want to know?” The question falls from her lips without her permission, but once it’s out, she almost feels a sense of relief. 

He squeezes her hands. “For me, knowing changes nothing. I’m here for you, for this one, for as long as you’ll let me, but the genetic makeup means nothing in relation to how I feel about you. You have to know that.” 

“He’s going to make me find out.” 

Now, it’s not affection that passes across Jess’ face, but something much darker. “Rory, he can’t make you do anything. If his desire to have anything to do with this kid’s life is dependent upon a genetic test and not—” 

“I kind of want to know, though,” she admits to someone beside herself for the first time. 

Jess nods. “If that’s what you want, then I’m not going to stop you. Make the appointment, I’ll go with you.” 

WEEK 20

“Now what do we do?” Rory asks, holding the paper loosely between her fingers. 

“It’s up to you, you know that,” he says, his voice as gentle as the hand placed on her lower back. She knows that he said he won’t be upset either way, knows that it doesn’t change the way he feels, but she can tell that he’s at least a little let down. 

“We decided that if it confirmed Logan was the father, I would tell him.” 

“It’s your decision, Rory,” he says, his voice soft, caring — more than he has the right to be. “Seeing the results of the test don’t change the fact that it’s still completely up to you.” 

I love you, she almost says. The words tickle the tip of her tongue, which she quickly clamps between her teeth, almost hard enough to draw blood. It’s not the first time she’s had the thought, but it is the closest she has come to actually speaking the words. 

It doesn’t help that they’re still avoiding the subject of what exactly they want from each other. Okay, maybe avoiding isn’t the right word, because Rory is pretty sure that he’s not doing it on purpose. What she thinks he’s doing instead is giving her space, time to think, not pushing her by asking what she can only hope spends as much time on his mind as it does on hers — but it’s also, simultaneously, driving her absolutely insane. He wants to be with her, he’s made that obvious enough more times than she can count — has been doing so for almost as long as she’s known him — but has always let her take the lead, always made sure that she was the first one to make the move. 

She just… doesn’t know how to do it. She does know that this moment specifically is not the time for it. 

“He still deserves to know.” 

Jess just nods. Takes half a step back from her, his hand still ghosting against her back, so light that she would forget it was there if not for the intense heat that he is always letting off. 

“Then let’s call him.” 

The words set a weight on her shoulders that she doesn’t know what to do with, make her back hurt a little more than it already has been, somehow. 

“I need—” she says, her breath suddenly much harder to catch than moments before. “I need to sit down,” she manages, maneuvering through the kitchen and into the living room before plopping herself down on the couch. 

“Do you want some water?” 

She just nods, hoping that he is paying enough attention to catch it. Either he does, or he just gets her a glass anyway, appearing beside her what feels like moments later with it in his hand.

I love you, she almost says again, but what really comes out of her mouth is, “I can’t do this.” 

“Of course you can,” he responds, resting his hand on her knee — again, gently, with more care than he needs to, and, again, somehow radiating heat, even with her own body heating with her inability to catch her breath.

“No. No. What if he— what if he refuses to stay out of it? What if he insists on coming here, on leaving his pretty little princess fiance and his high class life and moves to Stars Hollow just to spite me, just because he insists he deserves to be around when it’s very literally the very last thing I want?” 

“Rory, listen to what you’re saying. This is Logan we’re talking about, a man who never compromised anything for anyone—” 

“But he’s changed since you last—”

“Changed enough to leave behind everything he knows, his entire holier-than-thou world, to move to this shitty little town?” 

“Jess!” 

“I’m serious! When was the last time he has ever sacrificed anything for anyone, done something for anyone other than himself?” 

She takes a breath, coming slightly easier now, and releases it slowly. Then another. 

“He has no right to be here with you in the first place, Rory,” Jess says finally. “He wouldn’t change his plans for you in college and wouldn’t leave his fiance for you now. He may fight to see this kid every once in a while, to at least not be barred completely from its life, but in every other sense of the word, it’s ours, okay?” 

This is the first time he’s said that. Said anything even remotely like that. Every other time it’s been hers — her baby, her decision, her comfort. It may not be the words she’s been wanting to say, the questions that have been keeping her up at night, even when she’s wrapped in his arms, but it’s something. And even that feels huge. 

Nodding, she takes another breath and pulls her cell phone out of her back pocket. She places her other hand on top of his, still resting on her knee. “Let’s do this.” 

He answers on the second ring, moments after Rory realizes both that time zones are a thing and that she has absolutely no idea which one he’s in. 

“Rory?” He has the audacity to almost sound excited to hear from her. 

“Hey.” For a moment, it’s all she can muster, thinking about just hanging up instead of going through with the rest of it. Her fear must be painted across her face, because when she turns to Jess, he just ticks one side of his lips up in a smile, squeezing her knee gently. 

“Is everything okay?” Logan asks, at the same moment Rory manages, “How are you? Did I wake you up?” 

“No, no,” he says, “I’m in New York right now, weirdly enough, and I was--I’m gonna be honest with you, I was just thinking about you.” 

“Oh.” 

“Are you okay?” he says again, after a beat passes. 

“Well, no. I mean, yeah, but— listen, Logan, can you—can you just let me talk for a minute? Please?” 

“Uh, yeah. O-okay, sure.” 

She sighs, loudly, through her teeth, which she’s sure Logan heard on the other end of the line. She doesn’t really care. 

“I’m pregnant. Five months. There’s a chance that it wasn’t yours, that it— happened after I got home, but we did all the tests and stuff and it — well, it is, it’s yours, and I just felt like you had the right to know, even though I don’t want or expect or— whatever — anything from you. I’m staying here, with—” somehow, her brain makes the snap decision not to mention Jess. “In Stars Hollow, at home with my family where I’m comfortable, and you don’t — there’s nothing you have to do, I don’t even — you don’t even have to come meet it when it’s born, but I just thought that you should know.” 

Silence. Long, devastating, heart-pounding silence. 

When he finally speaks, it’s quiet, though Rory has the feeling that it’s to hide the words from someone around him and not because he’s been rendered speechless: “And you don’t… want to be with me?” 

“God, Logan, seriously?” She half-wishes he could see the way she rolls her eyes at his question. Maybe he can even hear it in her voice. Jess lets out a breathy laugh. “You’ve spent years not choosing me, not even believing that I could be your first choice, you’ve hurt me more times than I could count, have chosen yourself and others over me since we were young, and you think this is suddenly going to erase all of that? Finally, I’m doing something that makes me happy, doing something for myself, I’m with someone who accepts my decisions and wants what’s best for me, for the baby, and not for himself — do you even know how to do that?” 

Silence. Again. 

“You’re with somebody else?” 

She sighs. That’s the part he’s caught up on? She wants to be surprised. But she can’t. “Yes.” 

“If you hadn’t done the tests, hadn’t decided to figure out if it was —  would you still have called me?” 

“No.” 

Silence. 

“How did you expect me to respond?” 

“I told you, Logan, I’ve learned not to expect anything from you. We just felt like you had the right to know.” 

“Mm-hmm,” he hums, enough anger behind the sound that Rory can feel it in her bloodstream. “And who is we? Do I have the right to know who will be raising my child?” 

She expected a few things from this phone call. She expected to be overwhelmed. She expected Logan to ask her a few questions. She even half-expected to get upset with him. But what she didn’t expect was anger. 

“You know what? No, I really don’t have to tell you that, do I? I really don’t have to tell you anything, actually. I’ll make sure someone contacts you when it’s born, because you have the right to know that, I guess, but until then? Goodbye, Logan.” 

It’s one of those moments that she wishes phones still had the ability to slam, because angrily pressing the little red “end call” button doesn’t adequately portray just how angry she is at him. Tossing the phone onto the couch next to her makes her feel a little better, though not quite enough. 

“See,” Jess says after a moment, taking his hand off her knee just to wrap his arm around her shoulder. “I knew you had it in you.” 

It’s as if the phone call has awakened some sense of fearlessness in her, and between the adrenaline rush and her new-found freedom, she feels unstoppable: 

“Why haven’t you kissed me yet?” 

Watching the collection of expressions that pass across his face manages to pull a smile to Rory’s face. 

The stuttering that follows, even moreso. 

“I just — I wanted you — to make sure — I didn’t want—” 

“Jess,” she says, turning her shoulders to face him more head-on, and his words stop when she places her hand against his cheek. “Please, just stop talking.” 

First, he smiles, stretching the arm he has laying across her shoulder to run his thumb across her cheek. And then, finally, he does it. Softly, sweetly, gently — everything he has proven himself to be over the past few months. Everything Rory needed him to be. Everything. 

WEEK 21

“So, I, uh, talked to Logan a few days ago,” Rory says, stirring the sugar into the cup of (decaf) coffee sitting on the table in front of her. 

Lorelai almost loses the sip that is in her mouth, covering her face with the back of her hand, eyes wide. “Rory! You can’t just drop a line like that on someone with a mouth full of coffee.” 

Rory lets out her own laugh, taking another bite from her plate of chocolate chip pancakes. “Sorry! But look, I— I just thought you should know. Man, what was the last thing I updated you on? Did I tell you that we decided to do the paternity test?” 

“Uh, no!” she says, her eyes growing wider still. “How did you not tell me this?”

She shrugs. “I mean, I probably decided to wait until we got the results to tell you, I guess, so now—”

“Wait, wait, let me guess,” she says, holding her hand up between them. Rory rolls her eyes, but gestures for her mother to continue. “If you had to call Logan, then I’m assuming that means Jess is not the father.”

Rory sighs, and, taking another bite of her pancakes, nods. “Bingo.” 

“And how does Jess feel about all of this?” 

Heat rushes to her cheeks, but even that doesn’t stop the smile from forming on her lips. 

Her suddenly-trembling lips. 

“He says it doesn’t change anything,” she says, trying to swallow the lump that’s risen up her throat. “That he still, you know, wants to be with me, wants to help raise the baby, but, I mean, it had to have at least brought his spirits down a little.” 

“It’s a true sign of his feelings, though,” she says, as if it’s not something Rory’s been obsessing over since… 

Since when? Since they got the test results in the mail? 

Since they decided to get the test done in the first place? 

Since she told him she was pregnant in the first place? 

She knows that all of these are wrong, though. She knows that she has been obsessing over Jess’ feelings since the first time she saw him when she came back to Stars’ Hollow. 

“Can we change the subject? Please?” she asks, just in time to hear the door at the back of the restaurant open. By now, it’s a sound that she would know anywhere, followed by the knowing pound of Jess’ boots against the hardwood floors. 

“Your grandmother wants to throw you a baby shower,” Lorelai says, trying her best to ignore the way Rory’s eyes follow Jess through the restaurant, but the way she smiles as he approaches the table, as he presses his lips against her forehead, still pulls a smile to her face. 

“Did you hear that, Jess?” Rory asks. “Mrs. Emily Gilmore is going to throw us a baby shower.” 

“When?” 

Lorelai finds herself surprised by his lack of a sarcastic comment — though, she supposes, maybe he has grown up a bit. 

“That’s what we were about to figure out, actually.” 

“Well, she wants to have it on a Sunday, she says it’s more proper that way.”

“Is she going to let us be in charge of the guest list, or is she going to want to invite her friends?” 

“She seemed to sound like she wanted you to make all the decisions, maybe let her feel like she’s in charge of a few things, and she’ll foot the bill.” 

“Good ol’ Emily Gilmore,” Rory mumbles, taking a sip of her coffee. “But yeah, that sounds — I can do that, I’ll give her a call later.” 

 Between Emily’s other proper Sunday events and the few that Jess has to spend in video calls with the publishing company — the agreement he was able to bring them to after the weekends on the road became too much for him (for Rory, really) — they decide on a Sunday two months down the road, Emily being surprisingly lenient with Rory’s wanting to have it at the Dragonfly Inn, and to have it catered by Sookie. 

(“Whatever you want, dear, it’s your baby shower,” she kept saying, though Rory could almost hear the passive-aggressive smile that she knows was spread across her face.) 

WEEK 24

“Would it be weird if I read to him?” Jess asks one night, Rory’s head in his lap as they both type away on their laptops, Jess’ current favorite indie British band softly playing from the speakers of his. 

Instead of answering the question, Rory asks one of her own: “What makes you so sure it’s a him?” 

He shrugs, pausing his work to place his hand on Rory’s ever-growing stomach. “I just have a feeling, you know?” he says, spreading his fingers wide. 

Rory can’t help but smile. 

“I mean, I don’t think it would be weird at all. I’m pretty sure that’s even one of those things that — I don’t know — that you’re supposed to do?” 

“But, I’m talking about, like, Ginsberg. Plath. Frost. Short stories from the New Yorker. Atwood.”

“You can’t just read, you know, normal baby things, huh?”

“All we’re going to be able to do once they understand what we’re reading is read nursery rhymes and Dr. Seuss. Let me enjoy something exciting while I still have the time.” 

“What, you’re not a big fan of Fox in Socks? What about Guess How Much I Love You? The Very Hungry Caterpillar?”

“Rory, come on, I’m serious.” 

“Yeah, me, too!”

For a moment, they just stare at each other. I love you, she thinks again, less surprising every time she tastes the words on the tip of her tongue, but she’s still biting them back. Jess has let her take the lead for everything else, she wants to give him this one. Instead, she decides on, “Oh, my god, you’re impossible.” He smiles first, though, and she is quick to return it. “But fine, yes, okay. If the thing you want the most is to start introducing this baby to American beat poets early, then I suppose I won’t stop you.” 

They start with Frost — “He still rhymes, you know,” Rory teases him as he pages through his worn copy of Mountain Interval to find what he’s looking for — but Jess has only made it through the first few lines of “Birches” before Rory finds herself nodding off, both exhausted and lulled by Jess’ reading voice: 

“When I see birches bend to left and right

Across the lines of straighter darker trees,

I like to think some boy's been swinging them.

But swinging doesn't bend them down to stay

As ice-storms do. Often you must have seen them

Loaded with ice a sunny winter morning

After a rain. They click upon themselves

As the breeze rises, and turn many-colored

As the stir cracks and crazes their enamel.”

But even with Rory’s eyes closing, with her quickly approaching unconsciousness, he doesn’t stop. He even goes back to his work for a while after the second poem, letting her sleep soundly next to him on the couch until he finds himself unable to keep his eyes open, and he rouses her only to move her to the bed. 

 After a week of Frost, next comes is Plath: “The Moon and the Yew Tree,” “Letter in November,” “The Munich Mannequins.” Unlike Frost, though, Plath does not put Rory to sleep. 

 For a few days, he reads pieces of a story from the New Yorker called “The Largesse of the Sea Maiden” — a piece that he was, ironically, supposed to write a review for but hadn’t yet found the time to focus on enough. Rory doesn’t particularly like it, but she does feel the little person inside her more often when Jess reads, though it’s not to a point where he can feel it yet, even with his and pressed against the taut skin of her stomach. 

 And then, finally, Rory lets him start Ginsberg. “A Supermarket in California” — “What thoughts I have of you tonight, Walt Whitman, for I walked down the streets under the trees with a headache self-conscious looking at the full moon.” Somehow, it just works so beautifully with his voice, really makes her feel Ginsberg in a way she never had before. In a way she never really needed to, honestly, but one that she certainly isn’t upset about. 

“Cia Dope Calypso”: “In nineteen hundred forty-nine / China was won by Mao Tse-tung / Chiang Kai Shek's army ran away. / They were waiting there in Thailand yesterday. Supported by the CIA. Pushing junk down Thailand way.” 

“Cosmopolitan Greetings” — Rory’s favorite, if she ever needed to have one — “Stand up against governments, against God. Stay irresponsible. Say only what we know & imagine. Absolutes are Coercion. Change is absolute.” 

It’s a week before she lets him break out Howl — and she doesn’t tell him right away, but she can already feel the baby ready itself for their almost-nightly poetry slam, as if they already know what is about to happen. She made him agree that they would split Howl into three nights, three sections, the way it is supposed to be, but that doesn’t stop the hypnosis that takes over as soon as he cracks the book open. 

“I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked, / dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix, / angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night, / who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat up smoking in the supernatural darkness of cold-water flats floating across the tops of cities contemplating jazz,” he says, his voice picking up every syllable as if he wrote the words himself, and Rory is caught. 

There’s no going back now, either with Ginsberg or with Jess. 

“... who were expelled from the academies for crazy & publishing obscene odes on the windows of the skull…”

“... who chained themselves to subways for the endless ride from Battery to holy Bronx on benzedrine until the noise of wheels and children brought them down shuddering mouth-wracked and battered bleak of brain all drained of brilliance in the drear light of Zoo…”

“... who disappeared into the volcanoes of Mexico leaving behind nothing but the shadow of dungarees and the lava and ash of poetry scattered in fireplace Chicago…” 

“... who wept at the romance of the streets with their pushcarts full of onions and bad music, who sat in boxes breathing in the darkness under the bridge, and rose up to build harpsichords in their lofts, who coughed on the sixth floor of Harlem crowned with flame under the tubercular sky surrounded by orange crates of theology…” 

“... who sang out of their windows in despair, fell out of the subway window, jumped in the filthy Passaic, leaped on negroes, cried all over the street, danced on broken wineglasses barefoot smashed phonograph records of nostalgic European 1930s German jazz finished the whiskey and threw up groaning into the bloody toilet, moans in their ears and the blast of colossal steamwhistles…” 

And then, it happened. 

One kick. Jess isn’t even sure that’s what he felt. 

“... who barreled down the highways of the past journeying to each other’s hotrod-Golgotha jail-solitude watch or Birmingham jazz incarnation, who drove cross country seventy two hours to find out if I had a vision or you had a vision or he had a vision to find out Eternity,…” 

Another. Okay, he’s more sure now. Especially as it happens again.

“... who journeyed to Denver, who died in Denver, who came back to Denver & waited in vain, who watched over Denver & brooded & loned in Denver and finally went away to find out the Time, & now Denver is lonesome for her heroes—” 

“I don’t know, Jess,” Rory says, stopping him from continuing, and though he isn’t sure why she stopped, he’s very sure that what he’s now feeling is the movement of the baby. “I think maybe they like Ginsberg as much as you do.” 

But his mind just keeps going back to that last line he read. Instead of responding, he reads it again: “who journeyed to Denver, who died in Denver, who came back to Denver & waited in vain, who watched over Denver & brooded & loned in Denver and finally went away to find out the Time, & now Denver is lonesome for her heroes,” — and, yes, the baby kicks again. 

An almost-violent movement, pushing some of the skin of Rory’s stomach around with the movement, but she doesn’t seem to care, her attention focused solely on the smile that continues to spread wider across his face. 

“Not only that,” he says, setting the book spine-up on the arm of the couch so he can run the fingers of his other hand through Rory’s hair, not daring to move his hand from the spot that the baby seems to be targeting, “But I think they may have just chosen their name, too.” 

“What? Allen? Certainly not Ginsberg, that’s how you destin a child for a life of torture—” 

“No, no, none of those,” he says, shaking his head. “Besides, I may have a feeling that it’s a boy, but that doesn’t mean the name choice needs to be so certain.” 

“Jess, just tell me what you’re thinking.” 

“Denver.” 

Surprisingly — really, he certainly didn’t expect it to happen again — he feels the push against his hand, the movement of the baby just as he says it. 

“Denver,” she repeats — and they do it again. 

She smiles. “Do you need to finish reading the poem, or can you just kiss me now?” 

WEEK 30 

“So, Rory, can you tell us about Denver?” She’s actually a little surprised that the question comes from Miss Patty and not from the prying mind of Emily Gilmore. “How did you guys come up with the name?” 

Of course, she had the thought a moment too soon, and this is when her grandmother decided to speak up: “How they picked a name without even knowing the gender is beyond me.” 

“Mom,” Lorelai says, turning towards Emily with her eyes wide. 

Jess rolls his eyes, doesn’t even try to hide it from the other guests at the shower. 

Lane laughs from her seat on the other side of Rory. 

“It’s from a poem,” Rory says, trying to ignore everything else going on around her, her hand on Jess’ knee. 

“Now there’s a surprise.” This time, it’s Paris with the sarcastic comment. 

“A famous poem?” Liz asks from across the room, where Jess was sure that she wasn’t actually paying attention, sitting on her cell phone. He’s surprised, but thankful that she actually seems to care. 

“Depends on who you ask,” Jess says truthfully. 

“You guys can’t just pick a normal name from a normal poem, can you?” Paris asks — and this time, Rory rolls her eyes. 

“Why, what’s the poem?” Luke asks, his patience cut short by the collection of women (plus Christopher, who everyone knows is far from his favorite person) around him. 

“It’s called Howl,” Jess answers. 

Paris scoffs. 

Jess rolls his eyes. 

“Seriously, Gilmore?” Paris asks, completely ignoring Jess’ pointed glare. 

“What?” Emily and Rory ask at the same time, but in very different tones. “Is there something wrong with that poem?” Emily asks, already judging Jess before she’s even given the answer. 

“No,” Rory and Jess say together. 

Paris rolls her eyes. “I wish I was surprised.” 

“Lorelai,” Emily scoffs, turning to her daughter as if there is something she can do in this situation. 

“What? What could I possibly do that would make you happy about this? They’ve already picked out the name.” 

“It’s just not the most appropriate for children, that’s all,” Paris adds, possibly seeing that argument that she almost started. 

“What, you expect me to start reading nursery rhymes before the kid can even understand what I’m saying? I would think you would be smart enough to know that’s wrong, Gellar.” 

“Maybe I’ll just start calling you Ginsberg.” 

“What does that mean?” Emily asks, either trying and failing to whisper to Lorelai, or knowing exactly how loud her voice is.

“It’s the poet, grandma,” Rory answers. 

"Maybe you should just read us the poem, honey," Liz suggests, rather unhelpfully. 

"Good idea," Like agrees. 

"That's a terrible idea," Paris (unhelpfully) argues. 

"Well, is it long?" Michel finally speaks up, simply enjoying the banter from the sidelines to this point. 

"It's published as a novel," Rory tells them all. 

Jess, of course, has to argue for Ginsberg. "Yeah, but not, like, a full-length novel." 

"That doesn't mean you need to read it at the baby shower," Lane agrees. 

"You're naming your child after this poem, the least you could do is share it with us," Emily argues.

And that's how Jess wound up reading all of Part One of Howl at the baby shower. 

When he's done, no one speaks for a moment. 

Emily is, of course, the first to speak. "Well, that was awful." 

"Mom!" "Grandma!" 

"I mean, she's not wrong," Luke — unhelpfully — agrees. 

"For once, I agree with the man," Michel — unhelpfully — adds. 

Thankfully (Rory supposes), that's the most chaotic part of the shower. 

 As people start leaving, Luke pulls Jess aside away from the crowd, stopping from loading the new gifts into the trucks parked by the side door to the Inn. 

"What are you doing?" He seems angry, which confuses Jess. 

"What are you talking about?" 

"Why haven't you asked her to move in with you yet?"

Jess is, to say the least, a little flabbergasted. "Is that what you want?" 

"Come on, Jess, you know this isn't about me. It's about you, it's about her, and it's about this baby." 

"I mean, she hasn't said anything about it." 

"Listen, I know you're letting her take the lead on everything, but sometimes you just have to take a leap of faith." 

Jess runs his hand through his hair — a little shorter than it's been recently, at Rory's request. He's only gotten compliments about it in the two weeks since it's happened, though, so he's assuming Rory isn't the only one who prefers it this way.

She's the only one that matters, though. She always has been. 

"What if she doesn't want to? If she thinks it's too much?" He almost doesn't ask the question — because it really is the main reason he hasn't asked her yet, despite all the times he's wanted to. The fear of denial. 

Luke almost laughs. "Then she'll continue to spend every night with you above the restaurant while still refusing to believe that she's not really living with us anymore." 

Jess contemplates this for a moment, silent. It's not that he doesn't want her to move in, doesn't want to raise the baby together, hopefully affording something more exciting than the apartment over the restaurant in the near future. 

Is it really what's best for the baby? 

"It would be easier to take everything there now than to have to move it all later," Luke comments, then slides his hat back over his slowly-greying hair. "I'll just leave you with that thought." 

But there's nothing more for Jess to think about, looking across the room to where Rory is standing between her mother and Paris, a smile spread over her face and her hands over her growing stomach. 

In just a few large strides, he crosses the room, pausing for a moment to let Sookie snap a picture of them with Lorelai's cell phone. "Rory, can I ask you something?" he asks, gesturing for her to walk with him. 

Smiling, she nods. "Of course. What's up?" 

He just goes for it. Rips off the band-aid in one fell swoop, or something like that. 

"I think it would be easier if we just took all of Denver's stuff to the apartment." 

"But there's more room for it at the house." She doesn't pick up on what he's trying to say. (He's not really surprised.) 

"We can make room for it." 

"But why?" 

"It would be much easier to just have everything in one place, don't you think?" 

"Some of my stuff is at the house, though." 

"Then we move what you need to the apartment, too." 

Finally — finally — she seems to understand, a huge smile spread across her face once the realization gets to her. 

"Yeah, okay," she says cooly, trying to hold herself together.