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Chapter Text

Rory didn’t know why it felt like she was committing some kind of super-secret espionage every time she let herself into Paris’s house — the spare key was hers to use, in Paris’s words. (Well, Paris’s words had been less “mi casa su casa” and more “if you come in late, don’t be surprised if I go all Krav Maga on your burglar-seeming ass,” but for Paris, that was downright heartwarming.)

Maybe the whole double-oh-Rory feel had to do with the house’s ridiculous size. Five stories, most of them filled with enough antiques to make Mrs. Kim go, ‘Hey, maybe consider an eBay account.’ Sitting there in the dark, curled up on a couch that probably cost more than her entire wardrobe of tasteful business-casual attire, Rory was…creeped out, frankly. The place was a lot more intimidating without the presence of angrily shouting McMaster-Gellers.

But there she was, all alone, hands folded over her stomach. Why, one might ask? Why was Rory semi-burgling her friend’s Lincoln-era mansion instead of spending the evening with her doting mother, drinking in her sage advice about the wonders of motherhood?

What a great question. Rory had been asking herself that little conundrum all night, starting with the moment Lorelai Gilmore reacted to the news of her daughter’s pregnancy with all of the enthusiasm of a murder victim, and only slightly less screaming.

Rory hadn’t known exactly what to expect, but she definitely hadn’t expected that. Definitely not horror and hand-wringing in the town gazebo. Lorelai had gone nuts, stammering out questions about the father and Rory’s future and whether this was the right time and place for her to have a kid. There was no golly gee, I’m gonna be a grandma! moment — just crazy amounts of worry. The apple clearly didn’t fall far from the Emily.

Rory heard the lock turn at the front door. To save herself a Krav Maga-style showdown, she called, “Paris?”

There was a loud thud, followed by the sound of Paris swearing creatively.

“Oh jeez, Paris — did I surprise you?” Rory rose from the couch just as Paris appeared around the corner, her arms full of slightly-crumpled folders.

“No, Rory,” Paris said testily. “I’ve just started this darling new ritual of dropping all my case files the second I walk in the door. Now that Doyle’s gone, I gotta spice things up somehow, right?”

“Uh —”

“Yes, you surprised me. Give a girl a little warning, Gilmore. With all the cell phones you’ve got, one of them has to be capable of texting.” Paris flicked on the overhead light; after getting a good look at Rory’s expression (which must have been pretty pathetic), she eased off the rage a little. “What brings you to my neck of the woods?”

“Oh, you know,” Rory stalled, flopping back on the couch.

“I don’t. Clearly.”

“It’s…I’m…” Rory took a deep breath. Was it going to be this hard to tell every single person she knew? “I’m pregnant.”

Paris blinked. After a second of staring Rory down, she whipped out her phone and dialed. “Cathy? Paris Geller. I need to make a reservation. …Yes, I’m aware of the time.”

“Reservation?” Rory repeated. “I tell you I’m pregnant and you make dinner plans?”

“Preschool plans,” Paris corrected, covering the phone with a hand. “Now shush.” Back into the receiver, she barked, “Well, if you couldn’t handle providing ‘round-the-clock service, then you shouldn’t have promised it. …It was implied, Cathy. The same way I’m implying that if you don’t put this tot on your automatically-enrolled list, then maybe I’ll start recommending my clients try out the Story Time center instead. I’m sure they’d appreciate some toddlers of a higher caliber than their usual paste-eating idiots.” Paris jammed her free hand on her hip, listening to the other end of the line. “Yeah, that’s what I thought, Ms. Frizzle-wannabe. So the kid’s name is Gilmore — hold on a sec.” Paris turned to Rory. “Do you have a first name yet?”

Rory gaped at her. “I found out I was pregnant today, Paris. I barely have two embryonic stem cells to rub together.”

Paris rolled her eyes. “Never would have pegged you for a slacker. No, I’m not talking to you, Cathy,” she said into the phone. “You I very much would have pegged for a slacker. Put the name as ‘Lorelai Gilmore’ for now.” Off Rory’s look, she shrugged, saying, “What, like that’s an outrageous guess with your family’s track record?”

Rory couldn’t really argue.

“You got all that? Great. Ciao.” Paris hung up, sitting on one of her heirloom-looking chairs and kicking off her high heels. “You’re all set with Learning First daycare, whenever little Lorelai the Third is ready. Or Luke junior, I guess, if it’s a boy.”

“Why do you have a preschool lady on twenty-four-hour call?”

“Because I’m not an amateur.”

“Okay, but — but I can’t be more than a couple weeks along, and I don’t know, picking a preschool that early —”

“Learning First was my first call as soon as the test turned positive,” Paris said. “The clock was ticking. There are a lot of connected parents out there just waiting to crowd the schools with their snot-nosed spawn.”

“Wait — Doyle wasn’t your first call?”

“It’s not like the clock was ticking for him.”

“Oh my god.” Rory buried her face in her hands. “I can’t think about preschools right now. Or names, or gender, or anything besides the fact that a literal human being is gonna burst out of my body in nine-ish months in what I’m sure will be a scene that would make Ridley Scott proud.”

“Gender is a construct enforced through a series of socially-controlled behaviors, Rory. Of course you shouldn’t think about gender.”

“Paris!”

“What?”

Rory rubbed her temples. “I don’t know how to do this. Any of it. I can’t even keep my journalism career alive. How am I supposed to raise a kid?”

Paris joined her on the couch, frowning. “Are you sure you want to have it?”

“The baby? Yes. Yeah. …Or maybe I shouldn’t. I mean, my life’s kind of a mess right now.” Rory’s hands drifted to her stomach. “I don’t know.”

“What does Lorelai think?”

“I’m pretty sure the Kill Bill sirens started going off in her head when I told her, so I’m guessing she’s not super on board.”

“So that’s why you’re holed up at chez Geller.”

“That and I wanted to lock down a preschool before the fetus got to be the size of a lima bean. I hear the lima bean stage is when all the good schools fill up.”

“You mock, but your lima bean’s already on the fast-track to an Ivy League education,” Paris said. “I’m sorry your mom freaked.”

“It’s okay,” Rory said, leaning back on the couch. “I’m sure it’s weird hearing that your daughter is pregnant.”

“Yeah, but isn’t she kind of the expert on crappy mom reactions to pregnancies, and the resulting emotional damage?”

“You’d think, right?”

Paris clapped a hand on Rory’s shoulder. “It’s late. The guest room’s all made up; you should get some sleep.”

“Thanks,” Rory said, trying to suppress a yawn. “When do the kids get back from Doyle’s?”

“Not ’til Sunday. I’d still prefer you keep your behavior family-friendly until then,” Paris said, her eyes glinting in her I’m-gonna-make-fun-of-Stars-Hollow way. “No raucous parties or gentleman callers. Leave that small-town depravity back home.”

“Alright, Amanda Wingfield. This house stays gentleman caller-free. Are you coming up too?”

Paris glanced at her trusty craft station set up near the dining room. “Nah, I’m in a hot-glue-gunning mood.”
“And you say we small-towners know how to party,” Rory teased. She took to the stairs, mentally prepping herself for at least three flights of steps.

Before she was all the way up one flight, Paris called, “Hey, does Huntzberger know about his pretty-boy offspring?”

Rory sighed. “Not yet.”

“That’ll be a fun conversation,” Paris said, and turned to her crafts. Rory groaned and started her trek to the guest room.

————————————————————————

The next morning, Rory awoke to the smell of something mouth-wateringly good wafting into the room. She fumbled down the stairs, still half-asleep, to find Paris in the dining room. She was staring at her tablet, sitting in front of a plate laden with all the breakfast food you could want.

“Good, you’re up,” Paris said, setting down the tablet. “We need to talk schedules.”

“What schedules?” Rory asked, eying the food.

“Pregnancy schedules. If you’re thinking you’re going to go ahead with the kid, then we need to start planning. I’ve got a couple obstetricians lined up, and before you say anything, yes, I know you swear by your OB/GYN, but you need to at least give my girls a try. They’re the best of the best.”

“What?” Rory said helplessly, blinking sleep from her eyes.

“We also need to scope out a Lamaze class, because those things go like hotcakes,” Paris steamrolled on. “Are you thinking natural delivery or c-section? I went natural both times, and let me tell you, my junk was out of commission for months. I’m talking nonstop Kegels just to keep my bladder out of firehose mode.”

“Way too much information,” Rory said, plopping down in a chair.

“You need to get over your squeamishness if you’re going to be a mother,” Paris said sternly. “Trust me, unreliable bladder control is going to be the least of your problems.”

“I don’t doubt it, but Paris, you don’t need to do all this.”

“Don’t I?”

“…No?”

“So you’re telling me that if I wasn’t scheduling in doctors’ appointments and comparing crib manufacturers, you would be?” Paris cocked an eyebrow. “I don’t think so. This is real life stuff, and you hate real life stuff.”

“I don’t hate real life stuff!”

“Have you called your mom yet? Or the baby daddy?”

Damn it. “I just woke up.”

“Excuses, excuses. Listen, I’ll tell you what I told Luke: when it comes to pregnancy, you’d be stupid not to use me as your number one resource. Granted, my specialization is in fertility, but eh, to-may-to, to-mah-to.”

“Luke?” Rory said, confused. “Why were you telling Luke about your knowledge on all things pregnancy?”

Paris paused. “You and your mom really don’t talk as much as you used to, huh?”

“What does that mean?”

“Lorelai and Luke came to Dynasty Makers a while back,” Paris said. “They were considering trying for another kid via surrogate. They didn’t tell you?”

“No, they didn’t,” Rory said through gritted teeth. “And yet I get a phone call every time Paul Anka has a particularly exciting bowel movement.”

“What is that, some kind of Stars Hollow slang?”

“Why wouldn’t she tell me?” Rory wondered out loud. “We tell each other everything. And this is a big thing not to tell.”

“Maybe you should ask her. Do you want me to pencil in a mother-daughter heart-to-heart for today? We’ve got some time between meeting lady doctors.”

“You’ve already got appointments for today?”

“Yes, Rory, because I’m not —”

“An amateur, I know,” Rory grumbled. “Cancel everything for now.”

Paris balked. “Do you know how many strings I had to pull to get these people on short notice?”

“Well, pull the strings another day, because I’m tired.” Rory reached over to steal a strip of Paris’s bacon. “Let’s do something fun today. You want to bedazzle some throw pillows?”

“Don’t try to distract me with entry-level crafting projects,” Paris said. “If you don’t want to get the ball rolling on the pregnancy, that’s fine, but you’re not gonna mope around here all day. You’re gonna talk to your mom. Or Huntzberger.”

“But —”

“One or the other!” Paris said, glaring at her. “That’s your homework. After that, you can mope like the biggest mope that ever moped, for all I care.”

“I can’t tell Logan.”

Paris returned her attention to her tablet. “Sure. You’ll just tell him the physical resemblance he has to your little blonde bundle of joy is because you mated with a Ken doll come to life.”

“I mean I can’t tell Logan yet,” Rory said, continuing to mooch food off Paris’s plate. “I need to figure out what I’m going to say. He has a fiancée! He has this whole path he’s started down, and this is gonna ruin it. I’m gonna be the path-ruiner.”

“You weren’t the path-ruiner while you were boinking him behind fiancée’s back?”

“Fiancée didn’t know about that! It was distinctly separate from the path!” Rory shoveled potatoes into her mouth at a truly alarming rate. “Oh, god. Am I a terrible person?”

“Depends on whether you leave me any of my own breakfast,” Paris said. Rory sheepishly backed off. “Okay, so no mano-a-Logan today, because that boy’s clearly given you sexually-transmitted crazy mouth.”

“Look at you with that 30 Rock reference! If this were 2008, you’d be so hip with the kids.”

“Clementina has reruns on sometimes. I like it. That Jenna woman’s got drive.”

“No calling Logan. Got it. Good talk.” Rory was halfway out of her seat before Paris yanked her back down. So much for her daring escape.

“Not so fast,” Paris said. “Promise you’ll talk to Lorelai.”

Rory hung her head in defeat. “Ugh. Real life stuff.”

————————————————————————

When she reached her house, Rory felt the weird urge to knock, as if she hadn’t been strolling through that front door since she was old enough to stroll. She gave a timid “Hey, I’m home!” as she went in.

“Rory?” Lorelai shut off the TV, rushing over to hug her. “Oh, kid, I’m so glad you came back. I’m awful.”

Rory patted her back. “You’re not awful.”

“I am! I’m nightmare material. If you want to take that book of yours in a more Mommie Dearest direction, I wouldn’t even be mad.”

“What if I used wire hangers for my dresses?”

“Then you’re getting disowned.” Lorelai led them to the kitchen. “Let’s forget about your mother temporarily going insane. How are you feeling?”

“In general?” Rory asked. “Fine, I guess. Kind of scared.”

“I know,” Lorelai said, squeezing her hand. “It’s scary.”

“I’m gonna be a mother,” Rory said softly. “It sounds so strange to say. I’m gonna be a mother. I’m gonna be a mother.”

“Careful,” Lorelai said, “you’re veering dangerously close to Paris-on-C-SPAN-circa-2003 territory.”

“Another breakdown caused by having sex.”

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Lorelai asked. “I’m definitely not one to judge the unexpected pregnancy route, but a baby wasn’t in your near-future planning, was it?”

“No, it wasn’t. But I’ve always wanted kids, and I’m thirty-two, so…shouldn’t I?” Rory said. For someone who spent so much time debating in high school, she should really be able to make a more compelling argument. “Ideally I’d want a guy in the picture too, but it doesn’t have to be guy first, then baby. It can be baby first, then guy.”

“Don’t I know it, sister.”

“And then maybe a career somewhere in there, too.”

Lorelai studied her for a moment. “That’s my big honking red flag here,” she said. “If you have a kid, the career can’t come first anymore. Not completely. Are you okay with that?”

Rory stared at her hands. “I’m not sure. All I’ve wanted for so long is to make this journalism thing work, and whenever I’ve pictured myself in a couple years, it’s always been, oh, I’ll be reporting in Cairo, I’ll be turning in thinkpieces from a hotel in Venice. But now I’m thinking about, oh, I’ll be introducing my daughter to the wonders of terrible 60s sitcoms, I’ll be cursing the songwriter who wrote whatever Disney earworm that becomes the next ‘Let It Go.’ It sounds nice.”

“What sounds nice?” Luke entered the kitchen, opening the fridge to peruse the contents. “Hey, Rory.”

“Hey.” Rory got up to hug him. “Did my mom —?”

“She blabbed,” Luke said, looking affectionately at Lorelai. “Congrats, by the way. That’s some big news.”

“Downright mammoth,” Rory agreed.

“We were just discussing the ups and downs of parenthood,” Lorelai said. “And I was saying, well, clearly there are no ups with a child like Rory. Sex, drugs, and rock n’ roll, day and night.”

“Yeah, you were a real hell-raiser,” Luke said, looking at Rory with mock concern. “That cornstarch heist was the beginning of a dark, dark path.”

“And who’s to blame for my woeful tale?” Rory said. “The hooligans who raised me. I’m depraved on account a’ I’m deprived!”

“So you’re thinking you’re gonna have it?” Luke asked.

Rory nodded. “I’m leaning that way.”

“Good for you.” Luke clapped a hand on her shoulder. “That’s gonna be a lucky kid.”

“Aw, Luke.”

“Don’t get sentimental, I’m just stating the facts,” Luke said gruffly.

“We’ll see how sentimental she is once she’s gone a couple months sans caffeine,” Lorelai piped up.

“That’s right, no coffee!” Luke said.

Rory groaned. “The baby’s a Gilmore! Gilmores need coffee to survive!”

“Don’t you worry, I’ll be pulling up to the hospital with a ‘congrats’ balloon and a pot of joe,” Lorelai said. “Maybe we can put some in a bottle.”

Rory realized her hands had once again clasped themselves over her stomach. Silly hands. There wasn’t even anything in there yet. Soon there would be, though: there would be a whole new Gilmore generation kickin’ it in her uterus. She wondered when she’d be able to feel the heartbeat.

“You alright?” Luke asked. “You’re looking kinda spacey.”

“Yeah,” Rory said, placing her hands firmly on the table. “Trying to take it all in. It’s a lot to take in.”

“It is,” Luke said. “Don’t sweat it. I think most new parents feel like they won’t be able to handle it, but you learn as you go.”

“It’s not that I don’t think I can handle it.”

“It’s not? I thought you said —” Luke turned to Lorelai, who gave his shin a little kick in what she must have thought was a sneaky manner.

“Did mom say she didn’t think I could handle it?” Rory said slowly.

“What? No!” Luke flailed for an excuse. “I’m worn out from today, I don’t know what I’m saying.”

“Why would you say that?” Rory faced her mom. “You don’t think I’m ready?”

“What’s that, Paul Anka? You need to go out?” Lorelai hurried into the living room, Rory in hot pursuit.

“Mom, talk to me.”

Lorelai sighed. “No, I don’t think you’re ready. It’s not my call, though. Just like it wasn’t my mom’s call when I was sixteen and pregnant way before MTV made it trendy.”

“Why don’t you think I’m ready?”

Lorelai gave her a pointed look. “Seriously?”

“I’m gonna take the dog out,” Luke said, fleeing the scene.

“Just tell me,” Rory said.

“You’ve been stuck in the same place for years,” Lorelai said. “Same people, same boyfriends, and the job thing…” 

“What job thing?”

“The ‘no job’ thing. The absence of a job.” Lorelai paused. “You’re restless, and you’ve been restless for a while. I don’t think a baby would help that, and I don’t think it’d be super fair to the baby if you can’t…you know, commit.”

Rory stared at the floor. “Wow.”

“It’s not my call,” Lorelai repeated, taking a tentative step toward her. “Please don’t be mad, Rory, I’m just trying to be honest —”

“Yeah, I get it,” Rory said. "In the spirit of honesty, this is all stuff I've thought about myself, actually. Usually when it's 3 am, and I chalk it up to late-night panic. But nope, my mom feels the exact same way about me, and it's not even 9 pm. Good to know." She started up the stairs to her room.

————————————————————————

This time, Rory didn’t use her spare key; she rang the bell, and to her surprise, Paris opened the door.

“Answering the door yourself?” Rory said. “How very plebeian.”

“Clementina just went upstairs.” Paris took a good look at the three very full suitcases at Rory’s feet. “Talk with mom was a bust?”

“You have no idea,” Rory said, her voice a little less jovial than she would’ve liked. “I should’ve called, I know, but…”

“The guest room’s yours for the taking.” Paris helped her drag the suitcases into the foyer, examining her hand with disgust after letting go of the handle. “What K-Mart bargain bin did you scavenge these from?”

“No one needs fancy luggage.” Rory sat on the stairs, hugging her knees to her chest. Now that she’d completed the journey from Stars Hollow, all the stress and fear and other unpleasant emotions were bursting out like crazy. Paris joined her on the step, examining her face.

“What’s the matter?” she asked. “Did you just remember our country’s current political atmosphere?”

“I can’t do this alone, Paris,” Rory said, feeling very small.

Paris wrapped an arm around her shoulders, squeezing hard. “Then it’s a good thing you’re not doing it alone.”

Rory leaned against her, resting her head on Paris’s shoulder. Over the course of their friendship, there had only been a handful of moments when Paris had turned every ounce of her chaotic determined energy into comforting Rory. When she did, though, Rory felt a kind of safety she’d only ever otherwise experienced at home. It never ceased to amaze Rory that this hurricane of a human being could double as the eye of the storm when she wanted to.

“I need to start rescheduling,” Paris said, starting to get up. “These meetings aren’t gonna make themselves.”

“Hey,” Rory said, hooking Paris’s arm with hers. “Can we stay like this for a bit?”

Paris looked at her, her expression the kind of Paris poker face that Rory had never been able to read. “Sure,” she said casually, and began tapping away on her iPhone. Rory let her eyes drift closed, listened to the rhythm of Paris typing, and tried not to think about the real life stuff that awaited her tomorrow.

Chapter Text

You have ten new voicemails.

“I know, I know,” Rory hissed at her phone, dismissing the notification. Her mom had been leaving her multiple messages a day, the sincerity of which ranged from heartfelt apologies to soulful renditions of Justin Bieber’s “Sorry.”

“That’s how bored you are with my company, hmm?” Paris said, snatching the phone. “You’ve taken to talking to technology? Should I call Spike Jonze, tell him I’ve found his next big sci-fi smash?”

“It’s my mom,” Rory explained. “But yes, please pitch a sequel to Her with me starring as the weird robot-dater. We can call it Him.”

“I think the real star would be the long-suffering best friend who just wants to buy a damn crib before your water breaks.”

“Paris, I’m five weeks pregnant!” Rory said. The last week had been a whirlwind of Paris-approved doctors confirming that fact. “Any water breaking outta me now is because of too many Big Gulps.”

“You’ve been drinking soda?!”

“Was that not part of the pregnancy diet you slid under my door last night?”

Paris’s eyes narrowed. “Your baby better not get your sense of humor.”

“But I have nothing else to give!”

“You’re stalling,” Paris said, pointing an accusatory finger. “It won’t work.”

“My feet hurt,” Rory lamented. “We’ve been baby-shopping since nine. Can’t we start fresh tomorrow?”

“Come on,” Paris said, grabbing Rory’s arm.

“No, wait! I’ve been drinking soda! I’m drinking soda right now! There’s a pepsi IV strapped to my arm!”

Paris ignored her, dragging her toward the Baby Furniture store. She burst through the doors, giving the interior an appraising once-over.

“Hey, blondie,” she said to the salesgirl taking inventory. “Tell your boss that —”

“I’ll go get him,” the girl squeaked, stumbling through an employees-only door.

“Let me guess: you’ve been here before?” Rory asked.

“With the way this place overstocks, you’d think they’d order their staff some spines,” Paris sniffed. “If you don’t have people skills, get out of retail.”

“You want to talk people skills?”

“Paris!” A man emerged from the backroom, arms open in welcome. “Wonderful to see you again.”

“Jeremy,” Paris greeted, deflecting his hug with a handshake.

“I was so sorry to hear about Doyle,” Jeremy said in a hushed voice.

“It’s not like he’s dead,” Paris said dismissively. “Just deadbeat.”

“And this is —?” Jeremy turned to Rory, smiling.

“Rory Gilmore, the mother-to-be,” Paris said.

“A pleasure,” Jeremy gushed. Rory wasn’t quick enough to dodge the hug.

“Thanks for helping us out,” Rory said, awkwardly patting Jeremy on the back. “From what Paris tells me, you’re quite the crib mogul.”

“Save the niceties,” Paris said sharply as Jeremy beamed from the compliment. “So. We’re looking for safe and durable, but nothing that completely sacrifices style. The first life lesson this kid learns can’t be ‘my crib treats every day like Casual Friday, I guess I can too.’”

“Absolutely,” Rory said seriously. “If the baby isn’t dressing exclusively in Brooks Brothers’ ‘lil CEO’ line by the time they start walking, I’ll start filling out adoption papers.”

“She thinks she’s funny,” Paris said to Jeremy.

“Let’s see what we have,” Jeremy said, taking them on a tour of the shop.

Rory liked pretty much every model he picked out, but each time, Paris shot down the option with a sneer and an “oh, please.” They’d combed through nearly every crib in the place before Paris found something she didn’t immediately hate.

“I see you’re eying the Elmside,” Jeremy said excitedly. “Fabulous choice. Sleek design, adjustable mattress, and — get this — it converts into a more toddler-appropriate bed when your little one gets a bit older.”

“You mean the rails come off?” Paris said, nonplussed. “That’s what you mean by ‘converts?’”

“Well, yes, but —”

“What do you think?” Paris asked, turning to Rory.

Rory was caught off-guard; she hadn’t said more than two words during this whole crib hunt. “I like it!”

Paris frowned. “‘Like’ isn’t good enough, Rory. This is where your child is going to experience some of life’s most pivotal moments. You need to be ride or die for this crib.”

“Who was stupid enough to teach you the phrase ‘ride or die?’”

“We’ll keep looking,” Paris said to Jeremy.

“No,” Rory interjected, “we won’t. I love this crib! I’m crazy about this crib. I’d wanna make a baby with this crib if I didn’t already have a non-crib bun in the oven.”

“Gross,” Paris said, but she looked convinced. “Alright, Jeremy. Looks like we’ve found a winner. Took us long enough.”

“Fabulous!” Jeremy clasped his hands together happily. “Let’s get your delivery information.”

“What’s the damage?” Paris asked.

“$950. Will you be paying with check?”

“$950?” Paris repeated.

“That’s a little high,” Rory admitted. “Maybe we could take a look at the other models again?”

“You’ve got quite the racket here, Jer,” Paris said, somehow towering over Jeremy despite being a solid foot shorter. “I’m surprised your staff isn’t exclusively made up of Dickensian pickpockets.”

“I assure you, we sell the Elmside at its standard market value,” Jeremy said. “You can check online if you want.”

“What I want is for you to sell us this thing without stealing the bread from a new mother’s mouth.”

“We can get another crib,” Rory tried to say, but Paris was not to be stopped.

“Where do you get off charging a fortune for a glorified baby bed?” she roared. “For shame, Jeremy. For shame.”

“Paris, please,” Jeremy said, holding up his hands in surrender. “There’s nothing I would like more than for you and your partner to bring home this piece without any financial burden, but my hands are tied.”

Whoa, whoa, whoa. Partner?

Rory was about to make the obvious correction when Paris grabbed her hand, squeezing bone-crushingly tight.

“You hear about those gay-hating cake bakers in Oregon?” Paris said. “That settlement was nothing to sneeze at. Maybe I should call up some of my lawyer buddies and see what they think about a salesman jacking up the price of a crib just because the baby has two mommies.”

“That’s not —!”

“God, look what society has become,” Paris sighed. “It’s like Macklemore wrote that song for nothing.”

Jeremy set his jaw, looking defeated. “Let me see what I can do.”

Twenty minutes later, Paris and Rory walked out of the store carrying the receipt to a now-$800 crib.

“‘I assure you, we sell at the standard market value,’” Paris mumbled mockingly. “Yeah, right.”

“I can’t believe he thought we were a couple,” Rory said. Her hand was still recovering from Paris’s death grip. “Not that I’m complaining. You played that whole thing like a champ.”

“It’s not surprising. Jeremy and Doyle have friends in common.”

“So?”

“So he knows I date women.”

Rory’s stomach did a weird flip. “You…what?”

Paris unlocked the car, sliding into the driver’s seat. “Please tell me you’re not as obtuse as I think you are.”

“You’ve never dated women!” Rory said, searching through the many years of their friendship in her brain. “And you’ve been with Doyle since forever.”

“The trial separation two years ago,” Paris said, starting the car. “Doyle went to Hollywood, I met Savannah. Should’ve known it wouldn’t work out. Two people with places for names? Drama was inevitable.”

Rory’s head was spinning. She remembered Paris mentioning Savannah — even calling Savannah her girlfriend, but Rory had thought she had meant it in the ‘gonna go hit the town with my girlfriends!’ kind of way.

“So,” Rory said awkwardly. “You’re…”

“Labels are a needless compartmentalization of feelings that are fluid in nature anyway. You want Starbucks? Fighting with Jeremy tired me out.”

“Paris. How did crib guy know this thing about your life and I didn’t?”

They’d hit a red light. Paris turned to her, her expression much fiercer than her lofty tone had indicated. “If you ever asked about my life, you might’ve figured it out.”

They were silent for a bit. Rory tried to recall the last time she’d learned a fact about Paris’s life without Paris offering up the information unprompted. Even the news of the divorce had only come up because Paris had found a way to shift the conversation away from Rory talk. Most of their conversations were Rory talk, come to think of it.

After a few minutes, Paris chuckled. “The hair didn’t tip you off, huh? Investigative journalism might not be for you.”

————————————————————————

Rory’s thumb had been hovering over the ‘call’ button for a good five minutes, but she couldn’t make herself do it. She knew the second Logan hit her with that ‘Hey, ace,’ she’d chicken out and have to start rambling about the weather, and it would all be downhill from there.

She had to tell him soon, though. He was bound to hear it through the grapevine eventually. Either that or Rory would be grocery shopping one day, minding her pregnant business, and Logan would pop up with a couple of gorilla-masked buddies only to find that the Life and Death Brigade’s next wild adventure involved mashed carrots and warm milk.

“Rory! Move it or lose it!” came Paris’s voice up the stairs. It was movie night here at the Geller household. Tonight’s pick: The Little Mermaid, a classic. Rory made her way downstairs; in the TV room, Tim was sitting in Clementina’s lap, and Gabriela was curled up with Paris.

“Finally,” Paris grumped. “Okay, Clementina. Start it up.”

Rory settled in next to Paris. Soon, they were all swept up in Disney Renaissance magic — especially the kids, whose eyes stayed like saucers from the second Ariel came on the scene.

“Why does Ariel give up her voice?” Gabriela asked Paris after the fateful deal with Ursula was made onscreen.

Rory cringed, expecting Paris to plunge into a valid but not 5-year-old appropriate tirade about sexism and Disney’s anti-feminist propaganda.

“Ariel really wants to be with Prince Eric,” Paris explained, her voice softer than Rory had ever heard it. “Ursula takes advantage of that and makes Ariel think she has to change a part of herself to be with him.”

“That’s not right,” Gabriela said, crossing her tiny arms.

“It’s not,” Paris agreed. “You should never change a part of yourself for someone else. All princesses are perfect just the way they are. Especially this one.”

Paris kissed the top of Gabriela’s head. Gabriela giggled and returned her attention to the movie.

After the obligatory happily-ever-after wedding scene, the kids were starting to fade. Clementina took both of their little yawning selves upstairs to get ready for bed, and Paris and Rory retreated to the couch.

“I liked your explanation about Ariel’s voice thing,” Rory said, digging into the kids’ leftover popcorn.

“Can you believe she spends the whole movie keeping her trap shut so a man will kiss her?” Paris fumed. “They might as well call it Disney Presents: How To Be The Ideal 1950s Housewife.”

“It’s messed up. You did a good job translating that messed-upness into a teaching moment, though. That was some Full House stuff right there.”

Paris looked like Rory had just kicked a puppy in front of her. “How dare you.”

“What? Full House is cute.”

“It’s cavity-inducing schmaltz with a laugh track.”

“Let me compliment your parenting, damn it!”

Paris took a handful of popcorn, smiling a little. “That was good parenting, wasn’t it?”

“Top quality parenting.”

“All I have to do is think, ‘what would my mother do in this situation?’ and then do the exact opposite,” Paris said. “That’s my recipe for success.”

“Whatever you’re doing, it’s working.” Rory’s phone buzzed — another text from her mom. “Ah, jeez.”

“Lorelai?”

Rory held out the phone so Paris could see the emoji-filled message. “Yep.”

“Remind me again why you’re not talking to her?” Paris asked, leaning back on the couch and throwing her legs over Rory’s lap.

“She thinks I’m a screwup,” Rory said, opening the message to get rid of that judgmental notification.

“No, she doesn’t.”

“She does. She’s always been Miss Supportive Mom through everything, every the really stupid stuff —”

“Like sleeping with a Wookie?”

Rory did a double-take. “How do you know about that?”

“Lorelai and I talk, Rory.”

“My point,” Rory said, cursing her oversharing mother, “is I must have screwed up my life pretty epically if she’s not supporting me now.”

“Okay,” Paris said skeptically. “But she’s not not supporting you. She just made, like, three criticisms about your life, then told you it’s your decision anyway.”

“Yeah, but…the criticisms hurt.”

Paris did not look impressed. “Oh, my sweet, thin-skinned Rory.”

“They did!”

“If that’s your idea of unsupportive, then your childhood was even more of a fairytale than I thought,” Paris said. “You make the other call yet?”

“Getting there.”

“Good god, woman.” Paris took out her own phone, tapping a few times before holding it up to her ear. “I swear, I have to do everything around here,” she whispered to Rory.

“Who are you calling? Paris, who are you calling?”

There wasn’t an ounce of guilt in Paris’s face as she said, “Oh, I think you know who I’m calling.”

“No!” Rory dove at the phone. Paris scrambled off the couch, keeping the phone to her ear.

“Voicemail,” Paris mouthed, and then: “Hi, Logan. This is Paris Geller. We were classmates at Yale — practically suitemates, for a while there. Anyway, if you could call Rory Gilmore at your earliest convenience, that would be just swell. She has something important to tell you. Thanks. Tell Odette I said bonjour.” She hung up, turning to Rory with a smile. “There. That wasn't so hard, was it?”

“You’re insane!” Rory spluttered. “If you had any marbles to begin with, you’ve certainly lost them now.”

“A simple ‘thank you’ would suffice.”

“Why do you even have Logan’s number?”

“I thought it’d be useful if I ever needed to contact you and you’d somehow destroyed your own million phones.”

Rory groaned. “You know all those times you declared us sworn enemies? I think it’s my turn. You, me: enemies.”

“Look me in the eye and tell me you would have called him in the next twenty-four hours without my help,” Paris said, staring her down with laser beam eyes.

“Fine! I wouldn’t have called. Happy?”

“Very,” Paris grinned. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go inflict some Bob Saget-worthy wisdom on my children while sentimental music builds.”

“Full House is not an insult, Paris!” Rory said exasperatedly. “It got a Netflix reboot!”

“Please. Netflix will reboot any old crap if it guarantees views.”

“Hey, before you go up — I’m sorry about earlier,” Rory said. Paris gave her the kind of ‘elaborate, please’ face that Chilton teachers used to use. “You’re right, I don’t ask about your life nearly as much as I should, especially considering how ridiculous your life is. I mean, NPH? How did you score that?”

“Neil knows quality when he sees it,” Paris said smugly.

“And about Savannah — I should’ve realized —”

“It was short-lived and you were in London for most of it.”

“Yeah, but I should’ve realized.”

Paris tilted her head a bit. “Yes, you probably should’ve. Considering this isn’t exactly new.”

“It’s not?” Rory caught Paris’s arm as she turned toward the stairs. “Wait, how new is it?”

“Gabriela needs a bedtime story,” Paris said.

Rory’s stomach was doing that weird flip thing again. “Okay, this probably isn’t the right time to ask, but does it date back to…I don’t know…spring break ’04?”

Paris snorted. “Typical straight girl. You find out your friend likes the ladies and your first thought is ‘ew, gross, she must’ve had a big lesbian crush on me!’”

“Sorry, sorry. Goodnight, Janis.”

“Goodnight, Regina.”

They climbed the Mount Everest that was Paris’s home, parting ways when they got to the top. It wasn’t until Rory was brushing her teeth that she realized Paris hadn’t really answered her question.

————————————————————————

Rory’s phone rang at 4 am that night. Desperate to stop the noise before the kids woke up, she answered without looking at the caller.

“Rory?”

“Logan?” Rory checked the time. “Is this payback for that time I called and woke you up?”

“Wh—? Oh no, it’s the middle of the night there. I’m sorry, ace. I got this weird call from your friend telling me to call you ASAP and it kinda freaked me out.”

“Paris has that effect on people.”

“So why’d she call me? She said you had to tell me something?”

Rory was definitely not feeling sleepy anymore. “Yes, I do,” she said. “Something. Something, something, something. You ever notice if you say a word too many times, it stops sounding like a word?”

“Wow, babbling-Rory. It’s that bad, hm?”

“Logan,” Rory said, tying to keep her voice level, “I want you to picture your life right now, okay? Everything about it — the good, the bad, and the ugly. When I tell you what I need to tell you, things are going to change, so you should brace yourself a little.”

“You do know you already broke up with me, right?”

Rory took a deep breath. “I’m pregnant.” Silence. “I haven’t gotten any official DNA testing done, but I think we both know it’s yours.” More silence. “Please say something.”

“I don’t know what to say,” Logan said. “Odette set a wedding date, Rory. We’ve sent out invitations.”

“It’s not like I planned this.”

“I know.” He sighed. There was a considerable pause before he said, “Do you know how far along you are?”

Rory didn’t know if she was shivering from nerves or the temperature, but either way, she pulled on a bathrobe. “Five weeks.”

“Okay. So there’s still time to—”

“I’m keeping the baby.”

“Rory,” Logan said, starting to sound borderline panicked. “I know you. This isn’t what you want right now, is it? Stuck at home with a baby? That’s the least Rory Gilmore thing I can think of.”

“I’m not asking you to move here and start a family.”

“This isn’t what either of us wants!” Logan’s voice was rising. “We have lives. Good lives. Good, bad, and ugly, sure, but this is going to throw a wrench into the machinery, you realize that, right? Come on, ace, you can’t really—”

“Don’t ‘ace’ me!” Rory matched his volume. “I’m not getting an abortion just so you don’t miss out on a bunch of French money. You don’t have to raise it! You don’t have to meet it! My mom did just fine without her kid’s dad, and I can too. I just wanted you to know about it, and now you do, so…so I’m going back to sleep.”

Rory hung up the phone about 0.2 seconds before the waterworks turned on. God, she had thought the days of crying over Logan Huntzberger were long gone.

“We don’t need him,” she assured her stomach. “We’re gonna be just fine.”

Her stomach gurgled in response. It was probably the leftover popcorn sparring with her internal organs, but Rory chose to see it as a sign.

Chapter Text

“Oh my god, Rory, they have onesies!” Lane squealed, bounding over to a nearby aisle and grabbing an armful of tiny pastel garments.

“They sure do,” Rory said, shifting her shopping basket to her less-numb arm. They’d been in Babies R Us for the better part of an hour, never managing to walk more than a few steps without Lane throwing something into the basket.

“Aw, look at the animal patterns!” Lane said. “Which do you want? Dog? Cat?”

Rory could not have had less of an opinion. “Uh…”

“Or dog and cat, for a little walk on the wild side?”

Rory glanced down at their pile of clothes. “I think we have enough stuff to clothe a small infant army. An infantry, if you will.”

“I’m going overboard, aren’t I?” Lane returned the onesies to the rack.

“Maybe a bit.”

“Sorry. It’s just so much more fun shopping for girls! You should’ve seen me trying to find things for the twins. It was like, ‘hey, do you want something that’s green? How about blue? No? Too bad, because those are the only options.’” Another item caught Lane’s eye. “Ooh, hats! We need ten.”

“Something tells me Auntie Lane is gonna be a hit with Lorelai the Third.”

Lane shot her a look. “Wait, are you already pinning down names? Why was I not consulted?”

“No names have been pinned, don’t worry,” Rory assured her. “That’s just Paris’s nickname for the baby. Well, that and ‘Gerber by Gilmore,’ but that one’s a mouthful to say.”

“You still staying with Corporate Energizer Bunny?”

“That I am,” Rory said, attempting to inch them toward the register.

“And how’s that going?”

“Great. She yells at doctors, I hide; she yells at salespeople, I hide. We’ve got a routine down.”

Lane laughed. “Wow, you guys sound married.”

“Ha! Good one. Me and Paris, oh man — that’s a real knee-slapper, that, uh…thing you just said.” Oh my god, why was she talking so loud? And so much?

Lane’s eyebrows shot up. “Are you getting enough sleep?”

“I’m fine! Never been better.” They’d wandered into the more ‘big kid’ section of the store. Rory spotted a toy guitar — it lit up when she tried to strum. “You should get this for Zack. I think it’ll give Hep Alien the edge you’ve been missing.”

“This’ll definitely push us into stardom.” Lane broke into a big sweet smile. “You know he’s been teaching Steve guitar?”

“Aw, really?”

“Every weekend. Pressing the strings kind of hurt Steve’s fingers at first, so Zack got him these Scooby Doo bandaids — but then Steve got all upset because he wasn’t ‘hardcore’ like his dad. So Zack started rocking the bandaids too. I had two of my guys running around the house with the Mystery Gang on their fingers.”

For some reason, the image of Paris holding Gabriela during The Little Mermaid popped into Rory’s head. “That’s adorable,” she said, trying to focus on the Van Gerbig-Kim household. “Is Kwan turning into a bite-sized bandmate too?”

“Not so much,” Lane said. “His thing is dinosaurs. Why do kids love dinosaurs?”

“Beats me.”

“Well, he loves ‘em. Zack got him this little triceratops toy the other day —” Lane paused, grinning at the memory.

“Look at you, smiley!”

“You’d think I’d be past the smiley phase by now!” Lane picked up the toy guitar, looking at it fondly. “How many years has it been? And I still get all fluttery about him. I guess you always do, with the right one.”

“Yeah,” Rory said, her stomach flip-flopping uncomfortably. “I guess so.”

————————————————————————

Here was the thing: Rory Gilmore was straight.

She’d always tried to be a good ally, of course. If Stars Hollow ever accumulated enough gay residents to have a pride parade, Rory would be the first one signed up to help. She was pretty sure her bookbag sitting in her room at home was still sporting the ‘str8 against h8’ pin she’d picked up from Yale’s LGBT student center. That creatively-spelled button was accurate: she was, indeed, str8. She was! Her whole life, that’d never been an issue, not even once.

Until Paris sidled out of the closet and things got weird.

For the first few days, Rory had blamed the weirdness on her own guilt about not realizing something so major about her friend. Then the blame had shifted to pregnancy hormones, because why else would Rory be getting choked up watching Paris read Tim his bedtime story? But hormones didn’t really explain the swarm of Paris-related memories that had been attacking Rory’s brain. What did explain it was…

No, you know what? She just wanted to be a good ally. That’s why she kept going over that last night of Spring Break ’04 in her head, Paris asleep by her side while Episode 5 of The Power of Myth played in the background, Rory’s lips tingling with a sensation she’d chalked up to that fourth cup of jungle juice. Allyship. That was it.

…Right?

————————————————————————

“I think I’m gonna hurl,” Paris muttered.

Rory looked around the waiting room. She didn’t see anything particularly hurl-worthy. “What, you have sympathetic morning sickness?”

“We’re surrounded by illness, Rory,” Paris said, looking a little green. “Everyone in our immediate vicinity is waiting to infect us with some unspeakable horror. We might as well be traversing the city ruins in a zombie flick.”

“How the hell did you get through med school?”

“Purell. And Adderall. Excuse me, pal,” Paris said to a doctor chatting up the receptionist. “We’re on a tight schedule, and I’d appreciate it if you didn’t distract the one person with the power to get this whole party started. What’s Henry’s ETA?” she added to the receptionist.

“Uh—” The receptionist turned to her computer. “It shouldn’t be much longer, ma’am.”

“I’m sorry, I thought ‘ETA’ stood for ‘Estimated Time of Arrival,’ not ‘Excuses that are Totally Asinine,’” Paris said, glowering. “Now, stop batting your eyes at McDreamy here and start doing your job.”

The receptionist looked about ready to cry. This was generally the point where Rory would swoop in to put out Paris’s social fires, but she wasn’t feeling the whole good cop routine today. Instead, she kept getting distracted by the way Paris’s hair moved when she was shouting. When it was longer, it used to sort of swish around like a really angry wave. Now it mostly stayed put, except when Paris brushed it out of her eyes, which she did with this little jerky gesture that was way too funny to be intimidating. Rory realized she was smiling.

“Rory? Did you hear me?”

“Huh?” Rory snapped back to reality. Paris was staring at her, bemused.

“I said Henry’s ready,” Paris said. “Let’s go.”

Soon, Rory was all set up in a hospital gown, lying back on a table with Paris’s doctor friend putting cold jelly on her stomach.

“Don’t freak if we don’t see the heartbeat,” Paris told her, sitting next to the table. “It doesn’t mean anything bad if we don’t. Tell her it’s fine if we don’t,” she ordered Henry.

“You’re seven weeks along?” Henry confirmed. Rory nodded. “There’s a good chance we’ll see the heartbeat.”

Henry started moving the sensor on Rory’s stomach; Rory suppressed the urge to make a ‘buy me dinner first’ joke out of nerves. Paris’s nerves were apparently manifesting in leg-bouncing instead of bad humor, since her leg was practically shaking the floor.

“It’s gonna be okay,” Rory said, extending a hand.

“I know it’s gonna be okay,” Paris scoffed. She still took Rory’s hand, though.

The two of them watched the ultrasound image form. Rory had no idea what she was supposed to be looking for — all she saw was a lot of gray smudges. Paris’s fingers still had a vice grip on hers, so she guessed Paris wasn’t seeing anything either. Rory was on the verge of actually making her terrible dinner joke when Henry pointed to the screen.

“There’s your baby’s heartbeat,” he said, indicating a tiny pulsing smudge.

Rory stared at the smudge — instantly her favorite smudge of all the smudges. Her heart was suddenly beating at what felt like a ridiculous rate. She hoped it didn’t bother the baby’s heartbeat. It’s not like this was a heart-beating contest. (Though if it was, she was winning.) “Does everything look healthy?” she asked faintly.

“One hundred and ten beats per minute; that’s a strong heartbeat,” Henry said.

“Oh, that’s good,” Rory said, realizing just how choked up she was as she struggled to speak. “Strong is good. Paris, he said the —”

Rory paused because oh jeez, Paris was crying. Not full-on sobbing or anything, but her eyes were teary-bright, a couple rogue tears already making their way down her face. She was looking at the image in awe.

“Of course she’s strong,” Paris said, clapping her other hand over their intertwined fingers. “Who’s surprised by that?”

Yeah, Rory was totally winning the heart-beating contest.

————————————————————————

That night, Rory lay in bed, her annoyingly-awake brain dividing its time between her baby’s itty-bitty heartbeat and the memory of a drunk 2004 Madeline saying I think the two of you would make a great couple.

Her legs carried her downstairs before the rest of her had time to catch up. Before she knew it, Rory was approaching the dining room; Paris came into view, hunched over her craft table per usual.

“Hey,” Rory said. Paris whipped around, knitting needles poised like javelins. “At ease, soldier.”

“One of these days, there really is going to be a burglar down here,” Paris grumbled, returning her tools to the table. “What are you doing up?”

“Couldn’t sleep.” Rory pulled up a chair. “Whatcha working on?”

“Nothing,” Paris said, covering her project with her arms.

“Paris, I’ve watched you crochet a cozy for an anatomy textbook. Whatever you’re doing, I won’t judge.”

Paris sighed. “Fine. But keep in mind that I only got the pattern a few days ago, and my fine motor skills aren’t what they used to be.”

She sat back, revealing two slightly lumpy baby booties.

“Are those for —?” Rory gestured to her stomach.

“I know they’re not exactly Louboutins, but I’m getting better,” Paris said defensively. “Besides, I’m guessing Lorelai the Third isn’t gonna be that picky when it comes to footwear. At least not until she spends some time with your grandmother. Oh, and I know I keep saying ‘she,’ but don’t think that means anything. I tend to assume all my clients are having girls, too. Must have something to do with my disappointment in men.”

Paris was jabbering on, as Paris was wont to do, and Rory didn’t know why she chose that moment to do it but all of a sudden she was doing it — she leaned in and kissed her.

Well, she tried to kiss her. Paris jumped back the second they touched as if Rory had electrocuted her. “What the hell?” she demanded.

“I’m sorry,” Rory said, her heart rapidly sinking. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

“But you did.” Paris crossed her arms, starting to pace around the room. “Why?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“You must’ve been thinking something, unless your lips have recently gained sentience,” Paris said, her voice doing the breaking thing that meant she was getting herself worked up. “So what is it? You finally figure out that I’m sapphically inclined and you decide to have yourself a late-in-life experimentation phase?”

“I — ‘late-in-life?!’”

“Oh please, you’re no spring chicken.”

“I’ve been feeling weird lately,” Rory said, trying in vain to make eye contact with the speedily-pacing Paris. “Around you, specifically, and yeah, I think it started with the Savannah thing, but it’s not…I’m not experimenting.”

“You’re not?” Paris glared at her. “It’s a coincidence that in the fifteen-plus years we’ve known each other, you don’t start feeling weird around me until you learn that my Kinsey scale number might make me a viable stand-in for Huntzberger?” 

“Whoa, this has nothing to do with Logan.”

“You told Logan you were pregnant and he didn’t jump at the chance to move here and raise cookie cutter Stars Hollow children, and that’s what you expected him to do, even if you won’t admit it.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Your self-esteem took a beating, so you want someone else to make you feel wanted and give you a cute nickname like ‘ace,’” Paris barreled on. “Well, sorry, ‘three of spades,’ but it ain’t gonna be me.”

“Listen —”

“You don’t get to do this!” Paris had stopped pacing. “You witnessed the Great Tristan Meltdown of 2016, Rory. It takes me a freaking ice age to get over people. Hell, I don’t think I fully closed the book on the Era of Rory until Doyle came along, but it’s closed, and you don’t get to reopen it just because your engaged college sweetheart doesn’t want to leave his beaux for you.”

“I…didn’t know there was an Era of Rory,” Rory said quietly.

Paris’s expression could’ve wilted flowers. “There’s just a high-pitched ringing in your ears whenever someone’s talking that’s not you, isn’t there?”

“Paris —”

“I’m going to bed.” With that, Paris stormed up the stairs.

————————————————————————

Rory only had about an hour to feel awful before there was a knock on her door. She opened it to find Paris, arms tightly crossed over polkadot PJs.

“The way I see it, we have three options moving forward,” she said matter-of-factly.

“Do you want to come in?” Rory asked.

“No, I don’t. Option one,” Paris ticked off the options on her fingers, “we forget this mess ever happened. Talk it out, hug it out, whatever it takes to salvage the friendship and get on with our lives.”

“I’m liking option one.”

“Option two, a stray bullet finds its way into my left ventricle, killing me off and sparing both of us the awkwardness. Judging by the trajectory of every lesbian TV character ever, option two is looking pretty likely.”

“Jesus Christ, Paris!”

“Then again,” Paris said thoughtfully, “I’m a real live person with blackbelt training, so we might be okay.”

“What’s option three?” Rory was almost afraid to ask.

Paris shifted from one foot to the other. “Option three comes with a condition.”

“Which is?”

“That I was too hard on you back there. That you actually do have some kind of non-blowing-off-Logan-steam feelings for me that you want to figure out.” Paris looked at her shyly. “Does that condition apply?”

“Yes,” Rory said immediately.

Paris smiled. “Okay. So, option three: we try this thing for real. I’m not talking about a Paul situation where you treat me like an affection vending machine whenever you’re feeling lonely. I’m talking five-star restaurants, horse-drawn carriages through Central Park, bouquets of hypoallergenic flowers on special occasions.”

“You want us to date,” Rory confirmed.

“Hold up there, speedy pete. No one said anything about dating,” Paris said. “That’s just one of the options, of which we have three. Well, two, since me getting shot as a convenient plot device isn’t exactly something we can control. Knowing you, I’m guessing you’ll be making a pro-con list over the next couple days to make a decision, so when you make your choice, let me know. I’ll be around.” She turned to go.

“Paris.” Rory caught her hand. “Would you like to have dinner with me sometime?”

Paris’s cheeks went pink. “Fine,” she said. “But you’re paying.”

Chapter Text

Rory threw another dress on the ‘loser’ pile, which was starting to look more like a ‘loser’ mountain. Why couldn’t she choose a damn outfit? Usually she’d be perfectly happy with the clothing equivalent of a grab bag, but tonight she was turning into a semi-panicky Tim Gunn and her closet was not making it work. If only her lucky interview outfit translated into date attire.

“Paris?” Rory ducked her head out of her room to call up the stairs. “Can I get some fashion advice?”

“And risk jinxing the whole night?” came Paris’s echoey reply from a floor above. “No thanks.”

“Why would that jinx the whole night?”

“We’re not supposed to see each other beforehand. It’s bad luck.”

“If you’re planning on springing a surprise wedding at the restaurant, then yes, but I don’t think that rule applies to dates,” Rory said.

Paris appeared over the banister. “You know what they say about lesbians settling down in the blink of an eye. I mean, we already live together and we haven’t even gone on the date yet. That’s some next-level U-Hauling.”

“Just pick a dress.” Rory held up two options. Paris inspected them closely.

“Blue,” she said, and retreated back to her room.

“Thank you.”

After getting dressed, Rory started fussing with her hair. Doyle had picked up the kids a couple hours ago, but not before Gabriela had managed to get a knot in Rory’s hair the size of a small tumbleweed. (‘It’s times like these that I really don’t miss my Rapunzel days,’ Paris had said smugly.) Try as she might, Rory couldn’t get her head halfway decent looking. She ended up piling the whole rat’s nest in a bun.

“You almost ready?” Rory called. “Our reservation’s for seven.”

“I’m coming, I’m coming.” Paris descended the stairs, looking…wow. Rory wasn’t usually one for butterflies, but there was definitely some fluttering going on. “Hi,” Paris said, adjusting her purse’s strap on her shoulder.

“Hi yourself.” Rory was struck by a little jolt of worry. How did romance banter work with Paris? Was it the same as usual banter? Should she refrain from bantering at all and instead turn to some romcom gooeyness?

“Gabriela’s handiwork is really holding up,” Paris said, nodding to Rory’s hair. “I might suggest she try her hand at conceptual art before she gets too cynical about creative types. It took me til age nine to fully get there myself.”

Well, that answered the banter question. “I’ve tried everything,” Rory said. “At this point, shaving it off and starting over is looking pretty tempting.”

“You got a brush?” Paris walked into her room, gesturing for Rory to follow. “I’ve never met a tangle I couldn’t undo. Parenthood, baby.”

Rory sat on the edge of her bed; Paris took her hair out of its abysmal bun, starting to comb through the snarls. To Rory’s left, Paris’s purse was open, a couple white notecards peeking out.

“Please tell me you’re joking,” Rory said, snatching the cards and rifling through them. “You brought discussion topics?”

“I come prepared,” Paris said, completely unembarrassed.

“‘We’ve known each other for fifteen years.”

“Exactly. Most of the typical first-date chatter won’t work for us.”

“‘The rise and fall of the American auto industry’?” Rory read off a card. “How is that supposed to spark date chatter?”

Paris brushed with abandon. “It’s a fascinating subject, Rory. If you absolutely must relate every topic back to your life to stay interested, you could always talk about the failed Uber knockoff started by that guy from your town. Spock.”

“Kirk,” Rory corrected.

“Kirk. Alright, your hair is looking like hair again.”

Rory examined her reflection. She fluffed her hair a little, then turned to Paris. “Well?”

Paris smiled. “Perfect.”

“Promise?”

“Swear. Now go ring the doorbell.”

Rory raised an eyebrow. “Is this another date superstition?”

“We can’t just go galloping to the car together,” Paris said impatiently. “That’s not a date, that’s two friends heading to a friendly dinner. That’s the movie version of Fried Green Tomatoes. I want the book version of Fried Green Tomatoes.”

“You want…tomatoes?” Rory was thoroughly lost.

“Go be a good suitor,” Paris said grumpily.

Rory obediently went to the front door, walked outside, and rang the bell. A minute passed. Then two minutes. “Paris!” she groaned, ringing again.

Paris opened the door leisurely. “Oh, hello, Rory,” she said. “You’re right on time.”

“Let’s go, weirdo,” Rory said, and led the way to the car.

As they walked into the restaurant, Rory’s phone buzzed: a text from Logan reading can we talk? He hadn’t contacted her since their Jerry Springer-worthy ‘you’re the father’ phone conversation.  Rory yelped, shoving the phone to the depths of her purse. Luckily, Paris was striding ahead to catch the attention of an unfortunate waiter and missed Rory’s mini freakout.

“Good news,” Paris said, returning to Rory’s side. “We’re getting their best table.”

“Which means someone else is not getting their best table,” Rory speculated. Sure enough, she spotted Paris’s new waiter buddy ushering an unhappy-looking couple out of their seats.

They sat down at their table, the waiter bringing them a bread basket in record time. “Nice place,” Paris commented.

“It’s great. You should try the —”

“Enough small talk.” Paris leaned forward, steepling her fingers on the table. “I need you to be real with me, Rory. Is this a dare?”

“A dare?” Rory repeated. “How old are we?”

“Immaturity manifests itself at any age. Who put you up to it? Doyle?”

“Hoo boy, I miss the notecards.”

“You’re not denying it,” Paris said, her expression a familiar mix of hurt and hellbent-on-destruction.

“No one put me up to it,” Rory said. “You know that. Don’t go shadow-Paris on me this early in the night.”

Paris’s attack mode seemed to fizzle. “Sorry. Unless this really is a dare. Then I’m not sorry.”

“It’s not.” Rory thought for a moment. “I’m not a big ‘dare’ person. In fact, I pick ‘truth.’”

Paris eyed her suspiciously. “What are you doing?”

“Right now, you’ve got a bunch of anxiety on your plate, and considering we’re in a restaurant, we need your plate free. I pick ‘truth.’ Go ahead, ask me whatever you need to.”

After a beat, Paris burst out, “Do you actually want to date me?”

“Yep.”

“Like actually?”

“Yep.”

“This isn’t just a pity thing because you kissed me during a late-night pregnancy mood swing and now you feel bad?”

“Nope.”

“So you really had a Willow-and-Tara-holding-hands-by-the-vending-machines moment and decided to switch teams?”

“Okay, that question needs more than a one-syllable answer, but — Paris, I want to be here,” Rory said.

“You could say ‘the sky is green’ with those doe eyes and come off convincing,” Paris said, but she looked satisfied. They were interrupted by the waiter, who took their orders with the cautious air of someone who’s seen what Paris Geller is capable of.

“I think it’s my turn,” Rory said once the waiter had scurried off.

“What, with ‘truth or dare?’”

“Yes. I’ll even forgive the fact that you technically got four truths instead of one.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Paris huffed. “…Truth.”

Rory grinned. “Tell me about the Era of Rory.”

“Oh, screw you.”

“Come on, I want to know!”

“There’s nothing to know,” Paris said. “I liked you, I got over it.”

“Starting when, though?” Rory asked. “Chilton years?”

“Pretty much.”

“Wow. Talk about ‘if they pull your pigtails on the playground it means they like you.’”

“Enough with the interrogation,” Paris said. “You’re supposed to be wooing me, remember?”

“Right. So how about that American auto industry?”

“That’s chatter, not wooing.”

“So how about that American auto industry, gorgeous?”

Paris tried to hide a smile. “If you ever feel a desire to audition for The Bachelor, I’d recommend resisting that urge.”

An hour later, with dinner and dessert dishes piled high, the two of them set off for Paris’s house. As Paris got out her keys, she said, “As a general rule, I say we leave dating drama at the door. That is, if you think there’ll be…more of it.” Paris glanced at her nervously.

“Bring on the drama,” Rory said. “Same time next weekend?”

Paris brightened up. “You’re on. Well, goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

Rory lingered for a moment. Did a goodnight kiss violate the ‘leave the dating drama at the door’ rule? Apparently so, since Paris gave her sort of an awkward pat on the arm before starting up the stairs. A little disappointed, Rory followed. When they reached the first landing, Paris seemed to change her mind; she turned, stepping about as far into Rory’s personal bubble as she usually did. (Rory didn’t mind as much this time, though.) A sudden deer-in-headlights look in her eyes indicated that Paris was second-guessing her second-guessing, so Rory made the choice for both of them and kissed her.

The niceness outweighed the weirdness, which was what Rory had been hoping for. There was definitely weirdness — for one, Rory was not used to being the taller one in a kiss situation — but the niceness was a lot. Like, a lot a lot. Paris looked a little punch-drunk when she pulled away.

“Just to be clear, I’m not a first date kind of gal,” Paris said.

“Judging by Doyle, you’re a no-date kind of gal.”

“Low blow, Gilmore.”

With a parting smile, they returned to their separate rooms.

————————————————————————

The next day, Rory got a call from Luke’s Diner. She’d had the number saved for years, but Luke wasn’t really a phone call kind of guy — he was more of an oh-I-guess-Lorelai’s-passing-me-the-phone-now kind of guy. “Hello?” Rory answered tentatively.

“Rory, hey,” came Luke’s voice. “You got a sec?”

“Sure. How’s the lunch rush?”

“Updating their tweets and selfie-ing their burgers,” Luke said dejectedly.

“You can’t selfie a burger. Unless the burger is the cameraman, in which case, congratulations on your soon-to-be-world-famous burgers. The diner finally has real wifi?”

“Jess set it up when I wasn’t looking. How’re you doing? Everything going okay?”

“Tip-top shape.”

“And the baby?”

“Healthy as an embryonic horse.”

“Good, good. Listen, have you talked to your mom lately?” Luke asked.

Rory started searching for an excuse to hang up. “Define ‘lately.’”

“That’s what I thought.” Luke sighed. “I know you’re mad at her, but can’t you two just talk it out? The mood around here has been pretty grim for a few weeks.”

“I know, I’m sorry,” Rory said. “I just don’t know how to face her right now.”

“See, this is the kind of thing you should say to her. Good talk.”

“She hasn’t even done anything wrong. She’s actually right — everything she said to me was totally accurate, which is why it hurt so much.”

“Uh huh,” Luke said uncomfortably. “So, when I said ‘good talk,’ I thought that meant —”

“I’m the problem,” Rory continued. “Not just something I did, it’s the whole Rory package that’s letting mom down. I keep picturing us in twenty years going at each other like she does with grandma, and that’s not what I want, but it’s not what mom wanted either and it still happened, you know?”

“Trust me, I know.”

“I feel like anything I do is only gonna make things worse,” Rory said. “I don’t know what to do. What should I do?”

Luke cleared his throat. “Oh, jeez…This really isn’t my area. You got anything you need built? I’ll make you a crib. That’s what I’ll do. You talk to your mom and I’ll get some good oak after closing.”

“Thanks, but I got a crib with Paris. Luke, what should I do?”

“You know what, I’ll bet Paris has an opinion on this,” Luke said. “That girl seems to like sharing her opinions. How about you ask her?”

“I can’t go asking friend advice after the first date, she’d take that the wrong — uh —”  When Rory’s brain caught up with her mouth she was sure there would be a showdown.

“You’re dating Paris?” Luke’s voice moved into a register that would make a good dog whistle.

“Oh, I love Paris,” came Miss Patty’s voice in the background on Luke’s end. “‘Most romantic city in the world’ is right.”

“This is a personal phone call,” Luke snapped.

“Who’s dating who?” Babette’s voice called. “You and Lorelai didn’t split, did you, sugar?”

“Poor dear. If you need a shoulder to cry on, let me know,” Miss Patty borderline-purred.

“Go back to checking your instant grams,” Luke said frantically.

“It’s instagram, Lucas,” Taylor’s voice said reproachfully. Was the whole town congregating for lunch?! “Is something wrong with Lorelai?”

“Rory, did you just say you’re dating Paris?” Luke hissed into the phone.

“Sort of?” Rory offered weakly.

“Rory’s dating Harris?” Taylor’s voice was closer than before. “I thought her fellow’s name was Paul.”

“This is an employees-only area, Taylor!” Luke said.

“Paris,” Miss Patty’s voice repeated. “Oh my goodness — that angry little thing with the pixie cut? Rory, sweetie —” There was a scuffle; Miss Patty seemed to have seized the phone. “Can you hear me, Rory?”

“Hi, Miss Patty. Could you put Luke back on the phone?”

“You never told us you were a lesbian!”

“Lesbian?” Another scuffle; Taylor had captured the phone. “Oh, that’s wonderful! Rory, would you be interested in leading Stars Hollow’s first annual gay pride parade next year? You could be our grand marshal!”

“Alright, diner’s closed!” Luke roared. “Everybody clear out!”

After a few minutes of muffled talking and chairs scraping, Luke returned to the phone. “That was my fault,” he said. “I should know by now not to talk about stuff in the diner. Or anywhere. Taylor’s got ears like a bat.”

“It’s okay.”

After a few very awkward seconds of silence, Luke said, “So…Paris?”

“Paris,” Rory confirmed.

“Wow. And I thought I had my hands full.”

“You still very much do.”

“You wanna swing by the house sometime?” Luke said. “We can all talk?”

“Sure. Maybe don’t tell mom about this til then?”

“If you want to be the one responsible for the heart attack, go ahead. …I didn’t mean ‘heart attack’ over — it’s just, it’s Paris—”

“Oh, I know,” Rory said. “She’s a human heart attack.”

“The only problem is with Miss Patty and the rest in the know…”

“Oh god, the Stars Hollow gossip circles are gonna be lighting up.” Rory rubbed her forehead. “Try to keep them quiet.”

“Kill Taylor. Got it,” Luke said. “I’ll talk to you soon, kiddo.”
“Yeah, talk to you soon.”

Rory hung up, letting out the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding for what was probably an unhealthy amount of time. Just when her heart rate was returning to normal, a voice behind her said, “You and Paris, huh?”

Oh my god, Doyle. How could she forget Doyle was coming by today? “Hey!” Rory said over-enthusiastically. “Doyle! Great to see you! How long have you been standing there?”

“A while,” Doyle said.

“Great! I mean, it’s your house, so — well, kind of your house — did you know that I’m pregnant?”

“I did.”

“Super pregnant. Gonna have a kid! It’s so exciting! Motherhood! Family!” Rory was spouting out words like she was playing pictionary.

“You can’t avoid the elephant forever,” Doyle said. “It’s in the room. Let’s deal with it.”

“We were gonna tell you,” Rory said nervously. “Seriously, we were. It’s just that this is all really new, and —”

Doyle held up a hand. “It’s okay. We’re all adults. You guys can date whoever you want.”

“You’re allowed to be weirded out,” Rory said. “Honestly, it’s encouraged.”

“Are you weirded out?” Doyle was looking at her with a lot less friendliness than a second ago.

“No.”

“Dissecting human emotions is my craft, Rory. You can’t lie to me.”

Slow down there, Rory thought, you’re a screenwriter, not Freud’s protegé. “You can’t deny that it’s a surprising turn of events,” she said.

Doyle laughed. “‘Surprising’ is not the word I’d use. Look, I know the big ‘if you hurt her, I’ll kill you’ speech is a tad melodramatic, not to mention cliché — not that cliché doesn’t rake in the cash, as my agent repeatedly tells me —”

“The point, Doyle.”

“You’ve always been able to get to her the most,” Doyle said. “Try to make that a positive instead of a negative, okay?”

“I’m not sure I follow.”

“You’re a smart cookie, you’ll figure it out. I need to get going. Tell Paris I was on my best behavior — I think she’s looking for reasons to rip my throat out during the settlement.”

“I will,” Rory said, and fled upstairs before she could be roped into any more painful social interactions.

As she entered her room, a flash of color caught her eye. On the bedside table, a handful of purple flowers were carefully arranged in a fancy-looking vase. There was a folded note rested up against the vase, which Rory opened: Thought these would match the wallpaper. This is purely an act of interior decorating. Dating drama still at the door.

Paris Geller bringing someone flowers. Paris Geller bringing her flowers. As Rory ran her thumb over Paris’s inscrutable doctor handwriting, she thought she might be understanding Doyle’s point.

Chapter Text

“My problem, buddy, is that you advertised this mess as the Chocolate Sundae Supreme,” Paris snarled, gesturing to the admittedly sad-looking cup of ice cream Gabriela was holding. “If you’d have advertised it as the Rorschach Test Supreme, or the Half-Melted Blob Supreme, then I’d be getting what I paid for, but that’s not where we’re at right now, is it?”

The ice cream shop employee, who couldn’t have been older than sixteen, stared back at Paris fearlessly. “You must be a hit at parties,” she said in a monotone.

“You must be a snot-nosed little—”

“Okay!” Rory interrupted, fishing in her purse for some cash. “We’re gonna get another sundae, please. That work for everyone?”

“And submit to this sugar-based shakedown?” Paris asked, astonished.

“Mom,” Tim said, tugging on Paris’s arm. “Just let it go.”

Paris glanced from Tim to Gabriela (who had already consumed most of her melty sundae) and sighed. “You know what a Pyrrhic victory is?” she spat at her new enemy.

The girl shrugged. “I’ve got a feeling you’re gonna tell me.”

“It means you’ve won the battle but not the war, Dairy Queen! Not the war!” Paris said as Rory dragged her to a table.

The four of them sat down, Paris still glaring in the general direction of the counter. “How’s everyone’s ice cream?” Rory said, hoping to prevent any further brawls with teenagers.

“A little uninspired,” Tim said, picking at his rocky road. Paris beamed.

“‘Uninspired’ was on his word-a-day calendar,” she whispered to Rory. “What else is it?” she prompted Tim.

“Conventional,” Tim said, happily eating spoonful after spoonful. “Dreary. Monoton…motonomo…”

“Monotonous?” Paris suggested.

“Yeah!”

“What about ‘inconsequential?’ Do you know what that means?”

Tim’s eyes lit up. “What’s it mean?”

“It means ‘not important.” You want to spell it out?” Paris asked. Tim nodded excitedly. Paris took out a small notepad from her purse, writing out the word’s actual and phonetic spellings. As the two of them geeked out over vocab, Rory realized that Gabriela was staring at her.

“Hi,” Rory said. “So you’re…finished eating?” Gabriela nodded. Rory wracked her brain for something else to say — she’d never been very good at talking to kids. “What’s your favorite flavor?” Gabriela shrugged. Damn it! Rory didn’t have a backup question! “I can never choose either,” Rory said, attempting a sympathetic smile. Gabriela kept staring at her.

Paris’s phone went off, saving Rory from this tiny child’s scrutiny. “Hi, Clementina,” Paris said into the receiver. She listened for a beat. “What do you mean, ‘sick’? Describe your symptoms. Uh huh. Uh huh. Well, that’s nothing a couple Advil won’t fix! You’ll be better by tonight, right? …Right? Clementina? Crap!” Paris lowered the phone, seeming to remember the presence of her young and impressionable children. “Language, sorry. Mommy shouldn’t have used that word. It’s just that sometimes, when an employee fails to perform to an acceptable standard —”

“I think that’s a lesson for another day,” Rory interrupted. “You have the dinner thing tonight, right?”

“Schmoozing potential clients,” Paris corrected. “Big ones. Really big ones. I’d tell you, but I don’t want to betray anyone’s confidence.”

“Sure, I get that.”

“I mean, I suppose I could made an exception if you’re dying to know. ”

“I’m really fine with —”

“Alright, stop twisting my arm!” Paris leaned forward excitedly. “It’s Kate McKinnon. Kate freaking McKinnon! I could be helping to usher in the next generation of SNL royalty, but no,  Clementina just had to catch a case of the sniffles.”

“I could watch the kids tonight,” Rory offered.

Paris paused. “Oh. I guess that could work. Would you be alright with Clementina’s usual rate?”

“Paris, you don’t have to pay me. It’s only a couple hours, and I’m your…” Rory glanced at Tim and Gabriela. “Friend. I’m your friend. Friends babysit.”

“Okay! Great!” Paris turned to her kids. “What do you say, guys? Up for a night with your aunt Rory?”

Rory tried to keep a big smile while trying to figure out exactly how aunt Rory was going to kill the big menacing block of time she was now facing. 

The answer seemed to be ‘boardgames.’ Once Rory got the kids through the front door, Tim started rifling through the family’s neatly-stacked supply of games, finally deciding on a classic: ‘Life.’

“Pick your car!” Tim instructed, snatching up the green one for himself and sticking a little blue peg in the driver’s seat. Rory reached for the red car only to have Gabriela grab it from her fingers. A little shocked (and more than a little terrified of disciplining someone else’s kids for being rude), Rory opted for the blue car.

The three of them set up their pieces at the beginning. “Looks like we need to choose whether we want to start a career or go to college,” Rory said — her memory was a little hazy on the game’s particulars, though she definitely remembered cleaning house when she used to play as a kid.

“Should I do Yale or Harvard?” Tim inquired. “I did Yale last time, but then mom started talking about the ‘old days.’”

“No ‘old days’ talk from me,” Rory promised. “Scout’s honor.”

Tim grinned. “Okay, Yale! Where do you want to go, Gabby?”

Gabriela shrugged. She spun the game’s wheel with more ennui than a five-year-old should be able to muster, plodding her car along the college path. Tim tried to move the piece back.

“You need to pick!” he demanded. “It’s not fun if you don’t pick!”

Gabriela thought for a moment. “Cornell,” she said, smirking at the immediate rise she got out of her brother.

“Cornell?!” Tim repeated. “Are you trying to ruin the game?”

These sure were Paris’s kids. “I’m gonna go straight to a career,” Rory said, taking out the career cards. “Tim, would you hold these for me?” Still glowering at his sister, Tim fanned out the cards for Rory to pick from. “Teacher!” Rory read aloud. “Cool!”

“Wait,” Tim said. “You need to go to college for that one. Gabby, you didn’t separate the winner careers from the loser ones.”

“I don’t think those are really fair categories,” Rory said timidly.

“Here,” Gabriela said, holding out a card. “Be a travel agent.”

“Those don’t even exist anymore!” Tim looked very close to flipping the board.

“I bet I can bring it back into style,” Rory said, accepting the card. “Good choice, Gabriela.”

Gabriela didn’t even look at her. Rory had never had a problem watching Gabriela before — she wasn’t sure where the attitude was coming from, but she hoped Gabriela had a shorter cooldown period than Paris.

The game progressed little by little, Tim whooping and hollering every time he got a ‘life’ tile. With an impressive spin on the wheel, Rory pulled ahead to become the first one to reach the ‘get married’ tile. Her hand hovered for a second over the bag of plastic peg people before she plucked up a little blue fella and dropped him in her car.

“You’re marrying a boy?” Gabriela said. It was the first time she’d really spoken to Rory all day.

“I guess so,” Rory said, suddenly very aware that she had no idea how much the kids knew about their mom’s love life.

“Why aren’t you marrying a girl?” Gabriela persisted. Rory would kill for Tim to throw a fit right about now.

“I could,” Rory said, exchanging the blue peg for a pink one. “There’s nothing wrong with girls marrying girls.”
“I know there’s not,” Gabriela said sharply.

“Tim, it’s your turn,” Rory said, gesturing to the wheel.

“Would you stay married, though?” Gabriela said, ignoring Tim. “Because you’re not allowed to switch the person later in the game. It’s not fair.”

“Tim, please spin,” Rory said.

“Stop being a baby,” Tim said sullenly to his sister, spinning the wheel with excessive force.

“She’s just gonna leave!” Gabriela shouted, throwing Rory’s car across the room. She flew upstairs, stomping on every step.

Rory listened to the crashing of tiny angry feet, stunned. Tim completed his turn, landing on a ‘payday’ square.

“She’ll come down eventually,” he said, counting out his fake money. “She hates not winning.”

Rory made her way up to Gabriela’s room, knocking tentatively. Gabriela cracked the door open a sliver. “Can I come in?” Rory asked.

Gabriela shrugged, disappearing from sight. Rory followed her into the room.

“I hate you,” Gabriela said, folding her arms. “I’m going to hate you for a hundred thousand years and there’s nothing you can do to make me not hate you, so don’t even try.”

“Okay,” Rory said, kneeling by Gabriela’s bed. “I’m really sorry to hear that, Gabriela. I thought we got along pretty well.”

Gabriela glared at her. “That was before.”

“Before what?”

“Before you kissed my mom,” Gabriela huffed. “I saw you. In the hallway. And now you’re gonna leave and my mom’s gonna cry and it’s all your fault.”

Man, if Rory thought talking to kids was hard before…“What makes you think I’m going to leave?” Rory asked.

“Savannah left.” Gabriela’s eyes widened. “Did she leave because of you?”

“Oh, honey, no.” Rory sat on the bed. Gabriela watched her warily. “I’m sorry Savannah left. That must’ve been really hard for you.” Gabriela nodded. “But I promise, I’m not going anywhere. I’ve known your mom for fifteen whole years. That’s three times your age! That’s three Gabrielas! And all that time, we’ve never been able to shake each other off. I don’t think we could if we tried.”

“But you weren’t girlfriends before. What happens if you stop being girlfriends?”

“Then we’ll be best friends again, and I’ll still come over to play boardgames or get ice cream or whatever you and Tim want to do.”

Gabriela thought for a moment, then smiled. “Promise?”

“Pinky promise.” Rory extended a pinky, which Gabriela took with the demeanor of a business handshake. “Do you want to finish the game? I think Tim’s waiting.”

“Waiting to lose,” Gabriela said with a glitter in her eye and grabbed Rory’s hand, dragging her toward the door.

————————————————————————

Rory should have known walking through the heart of Stars Hollow was a mistake. She’d figured she would grab some coffee on the way to her house for courage, but with coffee came people. So many people. Too many.

“Rory, darling,” Miss Patty crooned as Luke topped off Rory’s travel mug. “It’s so good to see you. And look at your hair! Kirk, you’ve still got time.”

Kirk approached excitedly. “Rory, I’m not sure if you’ve heard, but I’ve recently opened a hair salon,” he said. “‘Kirk’s Kuts.’ If you want to blend in a little more with your people, I’d be honored to give you a new ‘do.”

“My people?” Rory repeated.

“The gays,” Kirk said matter-of-factly. “I could get some hair dye too. Rainbow, I assume?”

“Run,” Luke advised, sliding her a muffin for the road. Rory took his advice, scurrying home before Kirk suggested shaving the words ‘love is love’ on the side of her head.

Her mom greeted her with a bigger hug than she deserved. “Look at you!” Lorelai said. “Still all trim n’ trendy before the whale days set in. And oh, they will set in.”

“I don’t doubt it.” Rory kept hugging. “Mom, I’m so sorry about —”

“I know.”

“You were right about everything, I was just being —”

“Young, scared, and pregnant. Been there, done that.” Lorelai flopped on the couch, patting the seat next to her. “I’d appreciate if we didn’t have an encore performance of the disappearing act, though.”

“We won’t,” Rory promised.

“And no more call-dodging? ”

“None.”

“Good.” Lorelai looked at her, smiling. “It’s great to see you, kid.”

“You too.” Rory twisted her hands in her lap. “Have you, uh…talked to anyone lately?”

“Not since entering the nunnery.”

“I meant like, Miss Patty, or Babette, or…”

“Ah, yes. Stars Hollow’s professional gossipmongers,” Lorelai said. “There’s been some stuff flying around about you and a certain someone. Luke’s tried his very best to keep it out of my earshot, bless his heart.”

“But you’ve heard some of it?”

“Yes, but I figured I’d wait to hear it straight from the horse’s mouth. Spill it, Seabiscuit.”

Rory swallowed. “I don’t know exactly what’s flying around town, but Paris and I are kind of…together. More than kind of. It’s complicated, but…yeah.”

Lorelai processed this. “Wow.”

“‘Wow’ is right.”

“Do you realize what this means, Rory?”

“What?” Rory asked nervously.

“This means grandma’s just found a new arguing partner for every holiday dinner in the foreseeable future,” Lorelai said. “Why start fights with me when Paris is around? Paris is arguing catnip!”

“So you’re okay with all of this?” Rory confirmed.

“Yes!” Lorelai looked concerned. “You seriously didn’t think I would pull some ‘it’s-not-Adam-and-Steve’ stuff, did you?”

“No, but — it’s Paris.”

“Oh, yeah.” Lorelai cocked her head. “Honestly, hon, I’m surprised it took this long to be Paris.”

“Wait — you thought we’d get together before now?”

“I didn’t rule it out,” Lorelai said. “Plus, during the Jess years, I was pretty much evaluating every other option you had.”

“He wasn’t that bad.”

“You tell that to Pierpont.”

“It feels like the only person who’s actually surprised by this whole thing is me,” Rory said. “Go figure.”

Lorelai grinned. “Been there, done that, too. You little copycat.”

“I’m a life-plagiarizer.”
“Ooh, I just remembered! Now I can use the jokes!” Lorelai bounced up and down.

“The jokes?”

“I told you I wanted to wait ’til you confirmed the news, but just in case it was true, I might’ve been gathering some material.” Lorelai cleared her throat. “So there’s this town in France called Brest. In France. And —”

“Hello?” came a voice at the door.

“Thank god. Come in!” Rory called. Lorelai stuck out her tongue.

Paris strode in. “Rory, we need to talk,” she said. “Hi, Lorelai.”

“Hi, Paris,” Lorelai said.

“I told you I’d be back tonight,” Rory reminded her.
“Yes, but that was before I found out you’ve poisoned my children’s minds against higher education.”

Rory and Lorelai looked at each other. “What?” Rory asked.

“You didn’t go to college,” Paris said testily.

“She didn’t?” Lorelai said. “Does that mean I can get a refund?”

“Not in life. In ‘Life.’”

“What?” Rory repeated.

“The game!” Paris snapped. “The game of ‘Life.’” You went and started a career without going to college. What kind of lesson is that sending the kids?”

“It’s just a game,” Rory said. “I’m sure your kids will still go to college.”

“You don’t know that!” Paris set her hands on her hips. “You’ve romanticized the path of blue collars and untucked shirts!”

“Paris,” Rory said, standing up. “My mom and I were just talking about you.”

“The two of you were having a laugh over my children’s corrupted ideals?”

“Paris.” Rory gently placed a hand on Paris’s shoulder. “My mom and I were just talking about you and me.”

Paris froze, glancing from Rory to Lorelai. “Oh,” she said. “I see.”

“I was telling Rory she’s bagged a keeper,” Lorelai said. “Paris Gellers don’t grow on trees. And if they do, then that’s one successful and terrifying tree.”

“So you approve?” Paris asked softly.

“Of course,” Lorelai assured her. “I’ve always considered you part of the family anyway.”

Paris stood for a moment, looking awestruck, before clamping onto Lorelai in a tight hug.

Lorelai patted her back, mouthing ‘keeper’ at Rory.

“Sorry for ruining Tim and Gabriela’s futures,” Rory said when the hug finally ended.

“What? Oh. It’s alright,” Paris shrugged. “But the next time you play that game, you’re picking college.”

“Will do.”

“You know what you can’t learn at college?” Lorelai said. “Humor. Paris, I was just telling Rory that there’s a town in France —”

“Why don’t we play ‘Life’ now?” Rory said, rushing Paris to the front door. “Let’s go play ‘Life.’”

“Rory, your mom was trying to tell us something.”

“And your children are currently contemplating which trade they’ll pursue at vocational school.”

Paris paled. “Let’s go,” she said. “Good to see you, Lorelai.”

Lorelai waved from the couch, winking at Rory as she disappeared out the door.

Chapter Text

“Everything’s so cheap here,” Paris noted, examining a Doose’s Market-brand cereal entitled ‘Taylor-O’s.’ “In terms of both price and quality, if that wasn’t clear.”

“It was clear,” Rory assured her. Luke and Lorelai had invited them over for dinner, but an ill-timed phone call from April about what seemed to be a quarter-life crisis had prevented Luke from getting the necessary groceries. Thus, Rory and Paris were sent on an impromptu shopping trip, armed only with Luke’s list of ingredients and Paris’s persistent disgust for all things Stars Hollow.

“There must be more than this provincial life,” Paris sang to the box of ‘Taylor-O’s.’ The kids had chosen Beauty and the Beast as last night’s feature film.

“Quiet, you.” Rory checked their shopping list. “Okay, all we have left is zucchini. To the vegetables!”

Paris pushed the cart forward a few inches with an index finger. “So what should I expect tonight? What’s the angle?”

“Angle?”

“Is this more meet’n’greet or are we cutting straight to ‘what are your intentions with my daughter?’”

“They know you, Paris. I think they just want to have dinner.”

“That’s what they want us to think,” Paris said. “Doyle’s mother played the innocent act for a while. Then the questions started. ‘How’s the family gene pool?’ ‘When am I getting grandchildren?’ I started feeling guilty that I wasn’t popping out babies then and there.”

“Lucky for you, that part’s taken care of,” Rory said, patting her stomach. Paris’s snarky response was drowned out by a familiar pair of angrily overlapping voices.

“You don’t have to go make this a whole big thing —”

“It’s sick, Sookie! It’s produce adultery!”

“Taylor just got in a fresh delivery, and we both know your tomato patch hasn’t been at its peak this year—”

“You leave my patch out of this!”

As Rory rounded the corner, Sookie and Jackson came into view, each of them brandishing a tomato more menacingly than Rory had thought a tomato could be brandished.

“What happens if I gain a couple pounds around the holidays?” Jackson said accusingly. “Will you start asking Taylor when his next husband shipment gets in?”

“Hi guys!” Rory interrupted. The couple turned to her, tomatoes and all.

“Rory!” Sookie exclaimed, rushing up to hug her. “It’s so good to see you!”
“Hi, Rory,” Jackson said warmly. Then, to his wife: “Don’t think we’re done discussing your treason.”

“You mean my high standards for what goes into my gazpacho?” Sookie shot back.

“Standards, treason — to-may-to, to-mah-to, right?” Rory tried weakly. The pair stared back at her blankly. Tough crowd.

“Oh, Paris!” Sookie squealed, finally noticing Paris half-hiding behind Rory. “It’s been a million years! How are you doing, sweetie?”

“Exceptionally well,” Paris answered.

“Of course you are!” Sookie beamed at the two of them. Rory had a feeling she’d been chatting with Lorelai recently. “How long are you two in town?”

“Just for the night,” Rory said. “I’m so glad we ran into you!”

“Let me ask you a question,” Jackson said, and Sookie sighed. “If Paris — someone you care about, someone you trust — were to read someone else’s New York Times article instead of yours, wouldn’t you be hurt?”

“Why can’t I read both?” Paris whispered to Rory. “How little do people in this town read?”

“I have to be objective about my vegetables, Jackson,” Sookie said. “There’s no place for sentiment in the kitchen.”

“That’s what your food has been missing lately,” Jackson sniffed. “Love.”

They kept snipping at each other right there in the produce aisle, this happy, perpetually-arguing couple with a major height difference. Rory took Paris’s hand.

“We should probably get going,” Rory said. “Catch up soon?”

“You got it,” Sookie said, squeezing her shoulder.

————————————————————————

The evening started out surprisingly smooth. Lorelai filled in Rory and Paris on the April drama while Luke cooked — apparently, April didn’t think she had accomplished enough for her age. (“I remember that breakdown,” Paris said nostalgically. “Tell her to take a couple Xanax while reading old acceptance letters. Always worked for me.”)

Then the food was served, which Paris didn’t turn up her nose at. In fact, she liked it, complimenting Luke on his sophisticated use of seasoning. Luke seemed to be less afraid of her after that.

“Anyway, if they come back, I gave Michel free reign to turn the elevator into the Tower of Terror,” Lorelai said, concluding a story about some particularly terrible hotel guests. “We’ll see how much they complain about ‘that chatty lady at the front desk’ while they’re plummeting to the bowels of the Dragonfly.”

“Language,” Luke said, grimacing. “I’m eating here.”

“Bowels,” Lorelai repeated cheerfully, taking a big bite. “So, ladies, I heard you ran into Sookie today.”

“Yeah, like ten minutes before we got here,” Rory said. “How did you hear?”

Lorelai held up her phone. “Technology, kids. It’s the stuff of the future. I got a text that reads, and I quote: ‘Rory and Paris in Doose’s, heart emoji, monkey-covering-eyes emoji, two-girls-holding-hands emoji.”

“How very twenty-first century.”

“She and her husband were fighting about tomatoes,” Paris said.

Lorelai gasped. “She didn’t buy Taylor’s, did she?”

“She did,” Rory said gravely.

“The betrayal!”

“What’s the big deal?” Luke asked.

Lorelai turned to him. “How would you feel if I started going to another diner?”

“I’d feel like I could start stocking less coffee.”

“What do you think they were actually fighting about?” Paris asked. When met with blank stares, she elaborated, “The tomatoes were just stand-ins for larger issues, weren’t they?”

“Nothing’s a larger issue to Jackson than an unfaithful grocery shopper,” Lorelai said.

“Oh.” Paris looked at her plate. “My parents used to go to furniture stores and fight about their marriage. ‘Maybe this boudoir would fit better with the sitting room’s ambiance if it spent more time at home!’ Their metaphors were always pretty thin, but you get the idea.”

“I’m sorry, Paris,” Lorelai said, reaching over to pat her hand. “That doesn’t sound like any fun for little-you.”

“It’s okay. I’ve found better role models.” Paris smiled at Lorelai. “And better taste in furniture. You should’ve seen the dusty old things I grew up around.”

Rory decided it wasn’t the best time to point out that most of the furniture in Paris’s house looked like it was lifted from The Museum Of All Things Old And Dusty.

Lorelai’s phone buzzed. “Sookie says hi, again,” she said.

“Hey, we don’t want the Sparknotes version,” Rory said, gesturing to the phone. “Full text, please.”

“‘Such a treat to see Paris, smiling emoji, eggplant emoji, guitar emoji,’” Lorelai dutifully read aloud.

“Eggplant emoji?” Paris and Rory repeated in unison.

“Yeah, because you saw her in the produce aisle.” It took Lorelai a minute to realize why Rory and Paris were suppressing giggles. “Oh, you dirty birds!”

“Wait, ‘guitar emoji’? Why guitar?” Rory asked.

“Maybe she’s confusing me with your rocker friend,” Paris said. “The one who refuses to tell me which IVF clinic she used.”

“Lane had her boys the old-fashioned way,” Rory reminded Paris. One of these days Paris would believe her.

“Aw, it’s for the concert!” Lorelai said, clapping her hands together. “The one we all went to together, remember?”

“The Bengals,” Rory grinned. “That’s so sweet.”

“What, when you two were in school?” Luke asked.

“It seems like just yesterday I was hunting down your delinquent friends across New York,” Lorelai said, wiping away a fake tear. “Ah, memories.”

Noting Paris’s silence, Rory asked, “You remember that, right?”
“Obviously,” Paris said. After a moment’s hesitation, she added, “You know the Era of Rory? I think that’s when it started.”

As Rory’s stomach did a giddy little flip, the house phone rang. (Luke had told the Lorelais Gilmore on multiple occasions that they would pry his clunky old landline from his cold, dead hands.) “To be continued,” Lorelai said, clearly intrigued by this ‘Era of Rory’ business. She answered the phone, rolling her eyes at the voice on the other end. “Hi, mom. …Yes, this actually is a bad time to call, as it’s dinner time. You know, that time that’s universally accepted to be a rude time to call people?”

“Your grandmother?” Paris confirmed to Rory. “I always liked her.”

“That’s Paris,” Lorelai said into the phone. “She and Rory are over tonight. …Dinner tomorrow? I don’t know—” Lorelai started motioning for help. “They’re very busy gals. I doubt they’d have the time—”

Paris seized the phone. “Emily, hi,” she said, ignoring Lorelai’s horror-struck expression. “I know, it really has been too long. Dinner tomorrow, you said? I believe we’re free. …Wonderful! It’s a date.”

She handed the phone back to Lorelai, calmly reclaiming her seat at the table. Lorelai stammered a goodbye into the receiver.

“Paris,” Luke said, hanging his head. “What did you just do?”

“Lorelai signaled for someone else to talk,” Paris said matter-of-factly. “Tomorrow at seven, she said. I assume we’ll be staying the night, considering the new address. Does that work for everyone?”

Luke, Lorelai and Rory exchanged a weary glance. Introducing a new romantic partner to Emily Gilmore didn’t exactly have the best track record.

When they got home that night, Rory immediately broke out her tap shoes.

“If you scratch my hardwood, you’re dead,” Paris warned.

“I need to de-stress,” Rory said, beginning her routine.

“Hardwood, Rory!” Paris pulled her toward a carpeted area, scanning the floor for scuff marks.

“Do you know why I need to de-stress?” Rory asked, furiously attempting to tap dance on carpet.

“Because you ruined my floor and you now rightfully fear for your life?”

“Because you signed us up for the most stressful event imaginable!” Rory’s shuffle ball changes had never been more forceful. “Dinner with my grandmother and my parents? Are you nuts?”

“I’ve eaten meals with your extended family before.”

“Not as my — person!” Rory said exasperatedly. “Introducing a person to grandma has never gone even slightly well. Not for me, not for my mom, not for anybody.”

“With the people you’ve been introducing her to, I can’t say I’m surprised,” Paris shrugged. “You Gilmores really know how to pick ‘em.”

Rory buried her face in her hands. “You know all those questions you were afraid my parents were gonna ask you tonight? About kids and stuff? Expect all that and more tomorrow.”

“I can handle it.”

“I’m sure you can.” Rory wanted to add that there might be some questions about how Paris came to be Rory’s decidedly-female person, but she stopped herself. To be honest, she had no idea how her grandmother was handling all of this. Lorelai had passed on the news to Emily a few weeks back, and there hadn’t been a peep about it since.

“Are you embarrassed of me?” Paris asked.

Rory stopped her tap routine. “What? Of course not.”

“You can be honest,” Paris said, expressionless. “I know that I’ve got a bigger personality than most. You should’ve heard the reasons Savannah came up with to keep me away from her family reunions.”

“This isn’t about you, I promise,” Rory said firmly. “This is about Emily Gilmore and her lifelong mission to make everyone’s significant others feel as uncomfortable as possible.”

“You sure?” Paris said, crossing her arms.

“You have a standing invitation to any and all Gilmore family reunions, I promise,” Rory said.

Paris smiled. “I’ll extend the same courtesy to you, if my parents ever come out of hiding.”

“That’s all I ask.”

They headed upstairs (to the same room, which was a fairly recent development). At least they’d have a peaceful night before tomorrow’s big dinner.

————————————————————————

Bright and early the next morning, the two of them rose, groggily assembling their outfits for the day. It was all very domestic — Paris handed Rory her earrings, Rory brushed bits of lint off Paris’s jacket. They kept smiling at each other for no reason. Who knew you could have a honeymoon phase with someone you’ve known for fifteen years?

The plan was to pick up Luke and Lorelai before continuing on to Emily’s new home in Nantucket. Luke had promised plenty of road trip food, which Rory was going to need. Their overnight bags were packed and by the door; everything was running ahead of schedule. If they could keep up this efficiency for the rest of the day, they might be okay.

“Toothbrush?” Paris read off her checklist.

“Yes.”

“Toothpaste?”

“You were there when I packed my stuff,” Rory reminded her.

“Excuse me for being thorough.” Paris picked up her suitcase. “Ready?”

“As I’ll ever be.”

Rory leaned down to kiss her, but before she got there, Paris burst out, “I love you.”

Time seemed to freeze up. If Paris had just said what Rory thought she’d said, then the weird niceness of the past few months — the niceness that Rory had stubbornly refused to give a name — was suddenly official. They were moving past the ‘figuring things out’ stage, and Rory was still very much figuring things out. Her age-old instinct to bolt was kicking in.

What took longer to kick in was the realization that time had not, in fact, frozen up, and Rory had been standing there silently for way too long.

“Listen,” Rory tried, but Paris cut her off.

“Yeah, I get it,” she said, taking her suitcase and disappearing out the front door.

Rory followed, her stomach dropping. This day was going to be a lot longer than she thought.

Chapter Text

Rory had never known Paris to be the ‘silent treatment’ type. Maybe she’d like to be the ‘silent treatment’ type — there had definitely been times over their fifteen-year history when Paris had attempted to give Rory the silent treatment, but that usually ended as soon as she’d come up with an insult too devastatingly witty not to share. No matter what kind of fight they had, there was always a robust amount of communication, hostile or otherwise.

Not this time. As they road-tripped deep into New England greenery, Paris didn’t say a word except the curt “Hello” she gave Luke and Lorelai upon their pickup. Rory had tried to apologize before her parents joined the ride, but Paris had just stared out the window, arms wrapped around herself.

Lorelai tried to lighten the mood a few times, god bless her. “We’re not headed to a funeral, kids,” she said when her jokes fell flat. “Emily Gilmore will bury us all, you know that.”

“We can always do this another weekend, if you two aren’t feeling up for it,” Luke said. In the rearview mirror, Rory could see that he was sharing a look with Lorelai.

Despite the thought of the two-plus driving hours they’d already done being wasted, Rory considered it. “What do you think?” she asked Paris, not especially hopeful she’d get an answer. “Do you want to turn around?”

Her gaze still stubbornly on the window, Paris muttered, “No.”

Okay then. Nantucket, here they came.

————————————————————————

Emily’s new digs could not have been further from the Gilmore mansion Rory had known and loved. She checked the address at least ten times before stepping out of the car, unable to believe that her grandmother could actually be living in a single-story beach house with a little sea-themed doormat by the front porch reading ‘Whalecome.’ Lorelai was equally shocked.

“My god, the surfer bros pod-peopled my mother,” she said as they unloaded the car. “If she walks out with a bad tan and board shorts, we’re running like hell.”

“I don’t think I can picture that,” Luke said. “…Oh no. I pictured it.”

Thankfully, Emily appeared at the door looking as stately as ever, albeit dressed in more pastel tones than Rory had ever seen her wear. “Oh, good, you found the place,” she said, holding the door open as they all paraded their luggage inside. “I was starting to wonder if I would have to send out a search party.”

“Hello to you too, mom,” Lorelai said.

“Rory,” Emily greeted her happily, giving her a hug. “Well, look at you! You’re starting to show!”

Rory’s hands flew to her stomach. “I am?”

“Just a bit.” Emily examined her. “That shirt isn’t part of your maternity wardrobe, is it?”

“Uh…”

“Forget it. I’ll order you some proper clothes after dinner. Paris!” Emily went to embrace Paris, who had been lurking in the doorway, still creepily quiet. “I’m so glad you could make it down.”

“Thanks for having me,” Paris said, giving her a wan smile. Emily didn’t seem to notice the change in Paris’s energy — but then again, Emily must have been used to people shrinking in her  presence.

“You need help with dinner, Emily?” Luke asked.

“Aren’t you the gentleman. No, thank you, Lucas; Brigitta will be arriving at six,” Emily said.

“Brigitta?” Lorelai repeated.

“Yes. The cook.”

“You have a cook?” Lorelai did a double-take.

“When have you known me to not have a cook, Lorelai?”

Lorelai gestured to the house at large. “You’ve downsized. I assumed the cooks were part of the downsizing.”

Emily looked thoughtful. “Well, Brigitta is a very short woman, if that helps. Let me show you your rooms, girls,” she added to Rory and Paris.

‘Rooms?’ Rory mouthed to Lorelai. Sure enough, Emily directed Rory and Paris to two separate small guest rooms, each decorated with a smattering of beach-y paraphernalia. Paris gave Rory a bruising stare.

“Your room is down the hall,” Emily said to Luke and Lorelai. “Sorry it’s a little cramped. I’ve been meaning to get started on a renovation, but time just flies down here.”

“We’re in the same room?” Lorelai clarified, pointing at Luke.

“Of course you are. Why wouldn’t you be?”

Emily started down the hall. Rory grabbed her mother’s arm, hissing, “I thought you told her!”

“I did!” Lorelai hissed back.

“Coming, Lorelai?” Emily called.

“Yeah, sorry,” Lorelai said, throwing an apologetic look at Rory; she and Luke allowed themselves to be ushered down the hall. Paris promptly entered her guest room, shutting the door before Rory could follow.

“Paris,” Rory said, knocking on the door. “Can we please talk?” No answer. “You can’t ignore me forever. You remember that summer I learned morse code. I’ll tap my apology through the wall if I have to.”

The door opened a crack. “You already apologized in the car,” Paris said. “Mission accomplished. Conscience cleared. Leave me alone.”

“I screwed up,” Rory said, grabbing the edge of the door to keep Paris from slamming it again. “I’ve never been very good with the l-word, you know that. I hear it and I panic, but that’s not about you, or this.”

Paris rolled her eyes. “‘It’s not you, it’s me.’ How original.”

“It is me. Relationship milestones are like my kryptonite. I’m Superman with commitment issues.”

“Yeah, I know,” Paris snapped. “If you haven’t noticed, I’ve been present for every single one of Rory Gilmore’s great love stories. I know how they end.”

Ouch. “I don’t want this to be the same. I really don’t. I just need a little more time to figure out—”

Paris let out a short laugh. “So I’m supposed to twiddle my thumbs and wait while you figure out whether or not you’re gonna break my heart? Why are you still fifteen, Rory? Why does the world keep letting you be fifteen?”

“You dropped a bombshell on me. I don’t think it’s ridiculous to need some time to think.”

“How much more time could you want? We’ve been dating for two months,” Paris said. “Sorry, I mean experimenting.”

“Two months isn’t a long time,” Rory reminded her.

“After fifteen years of knowing each other, yeah, it is.”

“But that was fifteen years of friendship,” Rory said, her hands flailing more than she meant them to in her haste to explain herself. “Not fifteen years of — this.”

“This, this, this! What’s ‘this?’” Paris asked. “Use that famed Chilton-turned-Yale education and specify. I know I said that I hated labels, but holy hell, your vague-ass descriptors make a girl want some labels.”

The flailing intensified. “You know what I mean. Us.”

“God, talking with you is like herding really sheltered cats. Look, we’re both adults. Let’s cut the crap: do you love me back or not?”

Rory’s gut said yes and that scared her more than she could deal with, so she said, “I don’t know.”

“If you don’t know now, then you’re never going to.” Paris’s eyes were looking overly bright. “Maybe it’s my fault for expecting some kind of Fearless-era Taylor Swift story where you see that the person you’ve been waiting for has been standing here the whole time. But no! I got Reputation-era Taylor Swift, where nothing makes any goddamn sense!”

The door slammed shut once again, this time followed by the click of the lock.

————————————————————————

As Brigitta laid out vats of food on the dinner table, she joked with Emily like they were old pals. The two of them had a real rapport. Gone were the days of Emily berating her staff until both of them needed to lie down — now, both staff and matriarch alike couldn’t be more at ease.

Rory wished the same could be said for the rest of the table. She and Paris were seated opposite one another, both of them avoiding eye contact like the plague. Luke and Lorelai watched the pair tensely, powerless to intervene. No one spoke, and no one ate. Emily was not pleased.

“What’s gotten into you all?” she asked.

“Just the long drive,” Lorelai said quickly. “We’re beat. Aren’t we?” She turned to Luke for backup.

“Completely,” he said, stretching dramatically. “I’m gonna sleep like a log tonight. Can’t wait.”

Emily was nonplussed. “I’m so happy that the highlight of our brief visit will be the time you spend unconscious.”

“No, I didn’t mean—” Luke suddenly became very interested in the assortment of food. “Wow, this all looks good.”

“Rory, dear,” Emily said, shifting her attention. “Did I tell you that I started writing for the local newspaper?”

“No way!” So even her grandmother had an easier time breaking into the world of journalism. Great. “What are you writing?”

“An advice column,” Emily said.

Lorelai choked on her drink. “You’re kidding.”

“No, I most certainly am not,” Emily said crossly. “It turns out that most of the world does not share your opinion that my advice is best kept to myself.”

“That’s so cool,” Rory interjected. “What kind of stuff do people ask about?”

“The usual sorts of things. Domestic squabbles, career woes.” Emily smiled, her gaze drifting to the (normally-proportioned) portrait of Richard hanging on the wall. “One woman wrote in about the death of her husband. We ended up having dinner.”

Lorelai looked touched. “That’s great, mom.”

“Yeah, it sounds like you’re really helping people,” Luke added.

“I like to think so,” Emily said. “It’s funny: I always resisted the things you think of as ‘retirement activities.’ Sewing circles, and the like. Richard never did — he loved his golf, as you know. I suppose I thought I was above all of that. But if it makes you happy, what does it matter?”

“Hear, hear,” Lorelai said emphatically. “And if you run out of advice-seeking Nantucket dwellers, you can do what dad did and help Rory’s kid with their school projects. Those projects will probably be limited to fingerpainting and macaroni art for a while, but still.”

“That’s right, Richard helped you girls with that business project at Chilton!” Emily said, smiling down the table.

Paris perked up for the first time in hours. “We should’ve won that fair,” she said, more to herself than anyone else. “Those judges wouldn’t have known a brilliant idea if it smacked them in the face.”

“If it did, they’d be glad they had our first aid kits,” Rory said, attempting a grin in Paris’s direction. Paris stared straight ahead.

“Richard was so impressed with you, Paris,” Emily said. “He’d already known Rory was an exceptional young lady, of course, but I remember him raving about you after he came back from your little brainstorming sessions.”

Paris’s face softened from the stone it’d been all day. “I really admired that man. I was so sorry to hear about your loss.”

“It was the world’s loss, not just mine.” Emily sighed. “We better change the subject before my mascara runs. How is your husband doing, dear?”

Paris’s face went right back to stone. Lorelai burst out, “These Brussels sprouts are to die for! You want some, mom?”

“No, thank you, Lorelai,” Emily said before returning her attention to Paris. “I keep hearing about his movies. You must be so proud of his success.”

“That depends on how much of it I get in the settlement,” Paris said tersely. “We’re getting divorced.”

Emily clucked her tongue. “Oh, that’s a shame. You two seemed so compatible.”

“Try the sprouts, mother,” Lorelai said desperately, shoving the bowl in Emily’s face.

“Rory didn’t tell you?” Paris asked.

“I’m sure she was just respecting your privacy,” Emily said, blissfully unaware of the way Rory was sinking into her chair. “I know I wouldn’t like it if a friend of mine went around airing my dirty laundry.”

“Right,” Paris said, the slight waver in her voice mismatched with the fire in her eyes. “Rory’s such a good friend.”

Fast as a bullet, she got up from the table and disappeared out of the front door. Rory and Lorelai both started to follow her, but Emily stopped them, saying, “Let her be alone for a while. A divorce is a devastating thing.”

“Mom, we talked about this,” Lorelai said, burying her face in her hands. “It’s not Paris and Doyle anymore. It’s Paris and Rory.”

“What?”

“We talked on the phone, remember? I told you—”

“That ‘Rory was staying with her girlfriend Paris,’” Emily recited, confused. “So? She’s stayed at her girlfriends’ houses before. When she was a teenager, I remember she and Lane—”

“We’re girlfriends,” Rory interrupted. “We’re together. We’re dating. We’re—”

“Lesbian, gay-type lovers,” Lorelai added.

“You couldn’t have been that clear the first time?” Rory berated her.

“You and Paris?” Emily said nervously. “But I thought — oh, this is not good.”

Rory crossed her arms. “Wow, grandma.”

“No, you don’t understand. It’s just that—”

Emily was cut off by the sound of Paris screaming “ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!”

“He’s early,” Emily whispered.

“Who’s early?” Rory asked, already halfway to the door.

By the time she got there, she didn’t need an answer: standing on the front lawn in an expensive-looking suit was none other than Logan Huntzberger. And he was holding a ring.

Chapter Text

The worst nightmare that Rory ever had happened when she was a senior in high school, right before college acceptance letters were supposed to arrive. In the dream, Rory was trying to open her letter from Harvard — emphasis on trying. Every time she opened the envelope, all she found was another, smaller envelope inside. Harvard had sent her Russian nesting letters.

Exhausted and stressed out of her mind, Rory had finally reached the last envelope. When she pried the tiny paper open, all she found scrawled in the middle was: “DO U LIKE ME? CIRCLE ONE— Y/N -TRISTAN.”

That whole ordeal was looking like a hand-wrapped gift from the Sandman himself compared to the waking nightmare currently staring Rory down.

“Well,” Logan said, straightening his tie. “Here we are. God, I didn’t think I’d be so nervous.”

“Anyone else getting some serious déjà vu?” Lorelai said. Luke raised his hand.

“Logan, what are you doing here?” Rory asked, as if Logan would magically say, ‘Huh, I have no idea! Guess I should get going!’

“I thought that was obvious,” Logan said, holding up the ring. “No horse-drawn carriage nonsense this time, I know you hated that. Just you, me, and your lovely family. And… Paris!” He turned, bemused, to a seething Paris. “Long time no see. I’m actually glad you’re here, considering your part in all this.”

“My part?” Paris spat, hands clenched in fists by her sides.

“The voicemail you left me, telling me to call Rory,” Logan said, smiling. “That’s what set this whole thing in motion. We have a lot to thank you for.”

Paris let out an ungodly noise somewhere between a laugh and scream.

“What ‘whole thing’ are you talking about?” Rory asked. “I don’t think we’ve even talked since that phone call.”

“True. Despite my many texts.” Logan took a few steps forward, still proudly holding out the ring like he was getting ready to hoist Simba into the air. “But after that conversation, everything started falling into place for me. The more I thought about you, and me, and the baby, the more I wondered what the hell I was doing in London. Everything I want — everything I’ve ever wanted — is here.”

“I’m sorry, did I fever-dream you screaming ‘this is not what I want’ over the phone?” Rory said, her voice climbing higher of its own volition.

“I know what I said, but we’ve said a lot of things to each other over the years, ace,” Logan said, taking Rory’s hand. “Sometimes it takes really jumping into something to know that it’s right, and that’s what I want to do with you.”

“Logan,” Emily started, but was quickly interrupted.

“Thank you again, Mrs. Gilmore, for inviting me to your beautiful home,” Logan gushed. “I couldn’t have done this without you.”

“Logan, do you maybe want to step inside for a minute?” Lorelai tried.

“I know I should have talked to you, Lorelai, but since you and Rory are so close, I didn’t want to risk her finding out,” Logan said. “So, without further ado. Rory Leigh Gilmore, will you—”

“Huntzberger,” Paris snarled, vibrating with anger. “The sentient trust fund crawls back for one of his discarded silver spoons.”

“Excuse me?” Logan said, pausing his descent to one knee.

“Isn’t this the part where you’re supposed to ask if anyone has any objections?”

“No, that isn’t until the—”

“Glad you asked, ‘cause I’ve got a couple.” Paris closed in on Logan, radiating fury. “Let’s get the obvious stuff out of the way first. You do know you’ve tried this before, right? Are you in some kind of Groundhog Day time loop where you think you can get Rory to say yes if you tweak the proposal just right?”

Logan stiffened. “Paris, I think you need to calm down.”

“Also, you literally told Rory to get an abortion and leave you alone so you could keep snacking on Odette’s wealthy croissant, and now you show up expecting a nice, neat happily ever after? Who does that?” Paris said. “Oh, I know! Logan ‘In Omnia I’m-a-Rat-us’ Huntzberger! Life’s your oyster, so Rory’s gonna be your pearl, no matter how awfully you’ve treated her.”

“Paris, honey,” Lorelai said weakly. “Let’s take a couple deep breaths.”

“She probably will say yes!” Paris said, throwing her hands in the air. “That’s what always happens when I let myself start liking her again! ‘Here’s your chance, Paris — Jess is a thing of the past, and you followed Rory to Yale because when Terrance asked you what home meant to you, her face immediately popped into your head! Oh, darn, Rory met a passably-cute boy who’s kind of a dick, so she’ll probably date him forever.’ ’It’s now or never, Paris — Logan cheated on Rory with a whole freaking bridal party and Rory’s sitting on your couch eating Chinese food and swearing herself off men! Oh, whoops, too late, Logan kind of apologized and now they’re in love again.’” Paris looked at Rory for the first time since starting her rant. “Look what happened this time. You tell me that there’s something here, and take me on these ridiculous dates, which is pretty much every high school daydream I tried so hard not to have. I start thinking that maybe my fifteen years of being a lovesick idiot are paying off, and you’ve finally realized that we’ve always been better for each other than anyone else could be. But then your flavor-of-the-month soulmate shows up. So I guess that’s my cue.”

Paris started back toward the front door, but Rory grabbed her arm. “Wait—don’t go.”

“No, go!” Logan said angrily. “I think you’ve accomplished what you wanted, Geller. You made someone else’s special moment about you and reminded us all how spectacular you are at publicly humiliating yourself. Glad to see you haven’t changed.”

“Says the man-child juggling two women and chasing a fantasy,” Paris muttered, pulling out of Rory’s grasp.

Logan laughed. “Have you just kept following Rory like a lost puppy since college? That might be the saddest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Hey, back off,” Rory warned.

“It’s pathetic!” Logan said. “Her little crush on you was pathetic then, and it’s pathetic now. Honestly, Rory, why do you even keep her around?”

“Because I love her,” Rory half-shouted. Time didn’t seem to freeze up this time so much as slow down; her heart pounding, Rory turned to Paris, watching the flicker of surprise on her face grow into shock. “I love you,” Rory said shakily. “Of course I love you, you weirdo.”

“Really?” Paris said softly, all her fury deflating.

“More than I know how to deal with,” Rory admitted. “And that really, really scares me.”

“Join the club,” Paris said, looking a little dazed.

“Can someone please explain what’s going on?” Logan said indignantly.

“Walk it off, champ,” Lorelai said, ushering Logan toward the house; Luke followed, looking supremely uncomfortable. “I’ll call you a car.”

Emily followed them inside, giving Rory a smile over her shoulder. That left Rory and Paris on the lawn, both very aware that they were finally alone.

“I’m still mad at you,” Paris said, arms crossed.

“I know.”

“You’d think with all the will-they-won’t-they drama you’ve had with your various boy-toys over the years, you’d learn not to jerk people around before making a choice.”

“I know, I’m sorry.”

Paris looked at the ground. After a moment’s silence, she asked, “Are you actually picking me? Or are you going to wake up tomorrow and wonder what would’ve happened if you put on that rock Huntzberger’s offering you?”

“Paris—”

“I know how you are with decisions,” she said. “You spend most of your time wondering what was behind door number two, no matter how good door number one turns out to be. I guess that’s what happens when you grow up being told by every adult in your life that the world owes you absolutely everything. Before we ride off into the sapphic sunset, I need you to be sure about this, one hundred percent.”

“I’m sure.”

“So you want to spend the rest of your days listening to me freak out about my career and yell at MSNBC?”

“That’s how I’ve spent a good chunk of my days so far,” Rory reminded her. “This is what I want, Paris. I might be horrible with choices, but I think we chose each other a really long time ago. It’s just taken me an absurdly long time to realize that.”

“Oh,” Paris said, face unreadable.

“I understand, though, if all this nonsense has made you change your mind about —”

“Oh my god, stop being such a Mary and kiss me,” Paris said, launching herself into Rory’s arms. Suddenly, they were sixteen again, the most improbable Romeo and Juliet that Professor Anderson’s English class had ever seen. Holding Paris as close as she could, Rory recalled the feedback they’d gotten on that performance: very convincing. You two make a great pair.

————————————————————————

The drive back from Rhode Island was infinitely better than the drive down. For starters, Paris wasn’t dishing out the silent treatment this time; in fact, the other three passengers had a hard time getting a word in edgewise. Cutting remarks about Logan and ruminations on Emily’s interior design seemed to be Paris’s topics of choice. Rory held her hand for the whole ride, nodding along to each new opinion about how her grandmother’s faux-nautical decorations were a clever subversion of New England beach culture. (Lorelai’s timid comment suggesting that her mother “might just like whales” earned her a twenty-minute tirade from Paris.)

Rory’s parents dropped them off at Paris’s house with a big hug — from Luke as well as Lorelai, which was a little surprising. “You take care of her, okay?” Rory heard Luke say to Paris as he got back in the car.

“I will,” Paris said earnestly.

“I know,” Luke said, giving Paris one of the most genuine smiles Rory had ever seen on him.

They waved goodbye until the car was out of sight, then turned to the house, ready to relax after their exhausting — if productive — journey.

“Tim? Gabby?” Paris called once they were in the foyer. “We’re back!”

The kids came barreling down the many flights of stairs, followed at a more normal pace by Doyle. “How was the trip?” he asked.

“Why do you ask?” Paris said suspiciously. “Trying to sniff out a new location for your next box office bomb?”

Doyle rolled his eyes. “Yes, that must be it.”

“It was nice,” Rory said quickly. “How were the kids?”

“We were great,” Gabriela answered before Doyle could. “Did you bring us anything?”

Rory felt her stomach sink. “Uh—”

“Just this,” Paris said, producing Logan’s engagement ring from her pocket. “Wouldn’t this make a nice bracelet for one of your dolls, Gabby?”

“Or a crown,” Tim interjected excitedly. “We’ve been turning Gabby’s old Barbie DreamHouse into a constitutional monarchy.”

“My Barbie wants to be an absolute monarch,” Gabriela whined, looking like she was about to burst into tears.

“How did you get that?” Rory hissed at Paris.

“He threw it on the lawn when he left,” Paris shrugged. “Finders keepers, Logan weepers.”

Rory mouthed ‘don’t ask’ at a very confused Doyle.

That night, Paris and Rory sat through Frozen for at least the sixth time while the kids sang along. After the day was saved through the power of love, or sisters, or whatever — Rory was really getting tired — they brought the kids upstairs and tucked them in.

“Goodnight, moms,” Gabriela said sleepily. Paris and Rory looked at each other, stunned.

“Goodnight, kiddo,” Rory said, and they ventured back downstairs.

As had become customary after family movie nights, they spent the first half-hour or so snuggled on the couch, picking apart Frozen’s dramatic structure. “Why does Elsa sing her big realization song and then continue to struggle with not letting it go for the next hour and a half?” Paris demanded. “Has no one at Disney ever heard of Freytag’s Pyramid?”

“Clearly not,” Rory agreed. “Also, the trolls.”

“The trolls!” Paris clapped a hand across her forehead. “We’ve got Olaf as nonhuman comic relief and the snow monster as nonhuman villainy guy. Why do we need a nonhuman mix of both, but worse?”

“Beats me.”

“You’re the big writer here. You need to go teach these imbeciles how to make a coherent plot.”

“Hey, speaking of that.” Rory rested her head on Paris’s shoulder. “Remember when we went back to Chilton for the alumni day?”

Paris grimaced. “Vividly.”

“Charleston told me I’d be a good teacher, and I think he might be right. Is that crazy?”

“Why would that be crazy?” Paris asked.

“Because I’m not supposed to be a teacher, right? I’m supposed to be a journalist,” Rory said.

Paris intertwined their fingers. “It seems like you’re taking a lot less stock in what you’re supposed to do, these days.”

“Yeah, seems like it.”

After a minute of contented silence, Paris said, “I’m gonna go inspect the state of the kitchen. Doyle never leaves without making a mess.”

“Hey,” Rory said, squeezing Paris’s hand. “Can we stay like this for a bit?”

Paris looked at her, her expression pure tenderness. “Sure,” she said, settling into the couch.

Rory let her eyes drift closed, listening to the steady rhythm of Paris’s heartbeat. Tomorrow, she might change careers; she might start picking baby names; she might do a hundred grownup things that scared her as much as they always had. But if there was one thing she was certain about, it was that Paris Geller would be there by her side, yelling at the grownup things until they became slightly less scary. That was all she needed.