Title: Sailing Winds of
Despair
Rating: R? Might as well play it safe.
Pairing:
You'll figure it out.
Author's Note: It's slightly out of character, yes, but their usual
characters don't suit the mood I'm aiming for, thus I'm imagining they would
behave like this given the circumstances defined. Make sense? Hope so. If not, I
fear I must apologize. I had an itch to write this, and I don't think it turned
out like I wanted it to but there, it's out, and on 'paper', and now I can study
in peace. Mainly fluff, but it's four in the morning and any character
development threatened to end up... well, terrible.
Disclaimer: The characters within are not mine. The verse at the end is
from Jill Scott's Love Rain Down, with Mos Def. It's a beautiful song,
all three versions of it, and I entirely recommend it. I didn't think to use
that verse until I wrote the final line, so the correlation is vague.
She swirled the liquor in her glass around with a lazy twist of her wrist, observing the festivities with a bored expression. The gowns were the same, if in different shades and materials and cuts. They were the same because the people were the same, the smiles were the same, the music and the food and the tuxedoes and the talk, all the same. A couple walked by and nodded graciously, which she acknowledged with a pleasant smile, dropped as soon as they had passed on. She sighed, downing the rest of her drink with a sharp tilt of the glass, and headed to the bar for another.
The rum and coke was served up without any banter. There were times when her mood simply wasn't suited to the usual lightness and energy she exuded; times when she would rather run naked through a rosebush than pretend everything was alright. Thankfully, no one here knew her—actually knew her, rather than knowing her name and her parents and her daughter and her job and age and marital status—so there was no need for dissimulation. In fact, surliness was an expectation from her at these functions, even if it was typically delivered with levity.
It had been her birthday, yesterday. She was now forty-two. The age didn't bother her; it never had. Her body was still firm in the right places, and she was not the type desperate to 'catch a man', another perceived drawback to aging. The inability to have children was acceptable, as well. The one she had was enough and more for her. In fact, Rory had called her from Vancouver, busy advancing her career in the direction everyone foresaw. Unable to make it back, of course, her daughter had sent a care package, the contents of which brought a fleeting smile to her lips. It had been nearly eight years since Rory had moved out, but the pain lingered as each passing season reminded her that her only child was creating her own life, now, realizing her dreams and expanding her sights. Eventually, it would be time to start a family. That family's roots were unlikely to be in Star's Hollow.
Loneliness welled up suddenly, and she took a gulp of her drink to fight it back. Yesterday had been the beginning of her solitary existence. A grimace passed over her features, recalling the quiet night, watching a movie and eating take-out. Sookie had called, from her holidays with Jackson and the kids. Her mom phoned, as well, from the Vineyard, reminding her that she had to attend a social function the next evening—tonight—on their behalf. Luke had wished her happy birthday with a smile, a cup of coffee and a cupcake, before returning to his conversation with Janet, who was in Florida on business. Yeah, she'd really fucked that one up. And Chris—contact with Chris had steadily deteriorated since Rory moved out, and she now figured it had been about a year since she'd spoken with him. Swiping at her eyes, she refused to let the self-pity overwhelm her. She was better than that, better than this mass of broken, twitching nerve endings.
"Right," she whispered to herself, making her way to the balcony. She paused, tossing a last, bitter smile back at the crowd, before disappearing outside.
He caught the smile. It wasn't intentional, but he had been on his way to the bar, hoping to drown the constant questions in some rye, when she swept past him without a glance. Taken aback by the careless walk, his eyes followed her, hoping to catch a glimpse of the face that hid beneath the dark curls and topped the weary shoulders. He got that, and more. He caught a glimpse of himself.
Approaching the bar, he ordered two drinks, doubles, and, without hesitation, followed her path, stepping carefully through the billowing drapes to stand in the deepening twilight. The night was cooler than expected, leaving them alone outside. She was oblivious to his presence, though, facing the gardens and the dim starlight, which made him uncomfortable. Usually, he would enjoy a moment of unwitting observation, noting what he could of a person when they had their guard down. In this case, he felt like a voyeur, intruding on another's sanctuary, eavesdropping on their personal malaise. Coughing, he approached and, as she turned, handed her a glass.
Now they stared at each other freely, assessing and subconsciously classifying despite their constant attempts to avoid being defined themselves. Her eyes moved over him in the same way his did her, and the slight movement of her mouth mimicked his, pleased with what he saw. She was older than him, definitely, maybe in her mid-to-late thirties; gorgeous, though, with brilliant blue eyes, smooth skin and lips he wanted to run a finger over. More than that, he recognized her as both of this set, this social circle, and gladly outside it. It was something in the way she held her drink, the way her eyes skimmed over him, the way she had been leaning against the balcony railing as though wishing it were a ship's bow, sailing for a port leagues away from this one. And if that gaze was as perceptive as he guessed it to be, he was reasonably certain she would conclude the same of him. And so they two, who hated pigeon-holes with a passion, would bask together in the clichéd niche of Upper Class Deviant, also known as Rebellious Spawn of Old Money.
"Ironic," he murmured. She raised an eyebrow, in response to which he raised his drink. "Having fun?"
Her glass clinked against his. "To open bars," she toasted with a false, jaded wink. His laughter surprised them both, and they turned toward the manicured grounds in silence.
"I hear their water consumption rivals that of most developing nations," she said abruptly.
"Heaven forbid the grass be greener on the other side," he quipped.
"The bitterness never fades, you know."
Looking over, he saw her take another swig from her drink. "Bitterness?" he asked, choosing to play dumb. Her smile indicated awareness of the fact.
"We're born into it. No matter how hard we pull, how fast or far we run, we're always tied to it. Tied to the impossible wealth, the ridiculous opulence, the embarrassing hedonism."
Nodding, he continued. "The outrageous expectations, the detailed life plan, the requisite social schedule."
They stood a few moments more, quietly appreciating the escape.
Finally, he felt her direct gaze upon him. "What's your story, then?"
She saw him pause, and added, "You don't have to, you know. But I won't judge, either." Her companion rubbed a hand over his face tiredly, closing his eyes with a sigh. He was handsome, she admitted. Were they not so cynical, his bedroom eyes would be dangerous, she judged, especially combined as they were with a pair of killer cheekbones and that tall, lean frame. He was too young for her though, likely in his late twenties. With a small smile, she corrected herself. She was too old for him. There was a distinct difference there.
"I just graduated law school. Third in my class at Harvard. I was also recently dumped by my hand-picked fiancée, an heiress with impeccable breeding and social standing. My parents demanded my presence here, I imagine in hopes of finding another suitable mother for their grandchildren." He took a small sip and she did the same, waiting for him to finish. "All night, people have been both congratulating and consoling me. And yet," he shook his head, "they keep getting it reversed."
She let herself laugh, knowing somehow that it wouldn't offend him. He confirmed it by flashing her a breathtaking smile, the pallor lifted from his eyes, also confirming her previous conclusion regarding their potency. "That is the most genuine and refreshing reaction my tale has received all night."
"Ah, so this is scripted then, is it?"
"Always. I practiced for hours in front of my vanity, perfecting every nuance, every emphasis."
"I imagine the sympathy it generates will land you a catch for your parents in no time."
"I'm sure it would, if I was looking for pity." His leer left no doubt as to what he was looking for.
She fixed him with her best look of disdain. "Ah, so that's your type. The womanizing rogue."
"And you are?"
"The promiscuous rogue."
"You don't say. It looks like we're a match, then."
"Well, not promiscuous, more, how should I put this? The child-out-of-wedlock-at-sixteen rogue."
"I see. Can't say I've walked that path, though I was pulled out of school around that age, sent off to learn from the nation's finest in fatigues."
The alcohol was getting to her. He reminded her of Christopher, which unto itself was dangerous, and she was quite sure that this line of flirting could easily lead to a familiar balcony experience. Wondering again how old he was, she looked him up and down, and decided she didn't care. It wasn't weakness, or need. It simply was, and she refused to feel ashamed or question it. She took a step nearer, and ran a finger down his lapel. "It's safe to assume that your new surroundings hardly dented your ways?"
His grin was answer enough. "It was an interesting two years."
She nodded and stepped back, smiling. "My drink appears to be empty," she murmured casually.
"I'll be right back," he smirked.
Passing back through the frosted glass doors, he felt like a character in a children's book, moving into another world. The decor, the noise and the laughter were all garish compared to the tranquility and warm companionship outside. He quickly requested another pair of stiff drinks, worried that she would disappear while he was gone and anxious to slip back through the looking-glass.
She was coming on to him, or, rather, responding to his own approaches, which surprised him. Most older women would be insecure in that situation, assuming he found their age unappealing. The forward ones were veterans, exuding sexual appeal despite the fine lines at their eyes. She was neither, and altogether a mystery. Retrieving his order, he concluded that he was a distraction for her. It didn't bother him in the least, but he figured he deserved some insight into what necessitated his role.
With a feeling of déjà vu, he stepped back outside and walked over to hand her another glass. "Your turn," he said simply.
A few minutes elapsed in silence. "I'm alone," she finally said, softly. The words were tired and sore, achingly explicative, pulling him nearer. He reached out, moving a hand up and down her bare arm, not in consolation or desire, but as an offer of warmth. She tilted her head toward his, her eyes literally pools of blue, shining with moisture. An understanding was shared before he lowered his lips to her, almost timidly. Her mouth accepted his without hesitation.
Setting their drinks aside, he gathered her in his arms and deepened the kiss. One hand pressed against her back while the other ran down her sides, over her rear and back up to rest on a breast. She gasped at the touch, almost innocent, and then they were devouring each other, desperation flowing back and forth between them. His hand kneaded as one of hers twined in his hair and the other tugged at his shirt. The intensity broke them apart, only to have him pull her back, the desire to taste her neck overwhelming. Her moan guided his fingers lower, lower, and he sensed her buckling knees. Pulling her more tightly against him as she went for his belt, he remembered where they were.
"Just a second," he said raggedly, tugging her behind him. He knew this balcony from some event years ago; it wrapped around a corner of the house, offering a view south and a view west. The latter had no windows nor doors, providing a measure of privacy. Nestled safely in the shadows, he barely had time to let his eyes adjust before she claimed his mouth again, hands returning to his belt.
He groaned and she broke the kiss, leaning back and smiling. "Inhibitions have left the building, ladies and gentlemen." There was a twinkle in her eye as she spoke, and he revelled at how right it looked before giving her his most charming grin and whispering huskily,
"You have no idea."
"You know, I conceived on a balcony." She delivered that gem as he was doing up his shirt.
"You don't say." His voice was careless, belied by the button that flew past her head where she was bent over her shoes, tying them.
She laughed, thankful yet again for the wit she had mysteriously inherited. "Don't worry, I'm far past my prime child-bearing years. I won't be roping a shot-gun wedding out of you any time soon."
He approached her and gently tipped her head up to face him. "I want to see you again," he said seriously.
Ignoring the spark that passed through her, she took moved out of his reach and responded matter-of-factly. "You don't even know my name."
"I don't care. What is your name?" She saw the significance of her words register, and he started to add, "I'm—"
She cut him off with a finger pressed to his lips. "Don't," she said, gravely. "No names, no strings, no ties."
"But—"
"No," she repeated, her voice necessarily harsh. "You know this would never work. You knew it meant nothing."
He turned away, and she saw him take a deep breath, hands gripping the rail. He finally spoke. "You're right."
She softened, stepping up beside him to take in the dark blue sky. "I'm sorry," she offered. "Trust me, though, you can do better than a woman with a 26-year-old daughter. How old are you, anyway?"
A look of shock greeted her as she glanced over for his answer. "You're forty-two?" He looked her up and down, reminding them both of the past hour, before stating an appreciative, "Wow."
Grinning, she replied, "Thanks." She meant it, too. The entire situation, if looked at from the outside, smacked of a poor taste and dire consequences. She would have berated herself a few hours ago had a friendly neighbourhood time-traveler indicated that she would sleep with a man at least ten years younger than her on a public balcony at a party crowded with her parents' peers. The thought gave her pause—scratch that; she would have patted herself on the back. The point was that, instead of regrets, she had gratitude. With every twinge of passion, every newly re-active nerve, the sex—and it had been good, she reflected, validating her partner's confidence—reminded her that she was alive. Young, even, and capable of accomplishing whatever set her mind to with or without the entourage that she had come to depend on. She had made it on her own, twenty-five years ago, and she could do it again. The visions of pom-poms that popped into her head had her rolling her eyes.
It seemed an easy conclusion, a quick transition: depression due to insecurities and feelings of abandonment, then sex, and ta-da! the self-confidence soars. The reality was hardly that trivial. This night was not a solution, but it was—and she allowed herself to indulge in yet another cliché—a step on the path to that solution. A push in the right direction; an awakening, even. Strip away the analysis and she was left with the simple realization that it had been a Good Thing.
Coming back to the present, she returned the compliment. "You're not so bad yourself for a...?" she paused, expectantly.
He coughed, and mumbled something, turning away.
"Hey, come back here, young man," she called out, emphasizing the last part and enjoying herself immensely. "You know my age, only fair that you return the favour," she added suggestively, amused by the slight blush it evoked. They both heard it as an echo of her recent, and less innocent, use of the words.
Shooting her a sullen look, more adorable than anything else in his disgruntled and disheveled state, he spoke clearly. "Twenty-six."
She stared at him blankly for a few seconds, and he heard her mumble something that sounded like, "experienced," but he could tell she was deep in thought. "You went to public school in Hartford? A private school in the country?" The hope in her voice confused him.
"No, Chilton," he corrected, only to hear her swear.
"You're... You—You were sent to military school in ninth grade?" Again, that thread of hope, almost despairing now.
"I was a junior."
She studied him carefully and he felt nausea knit his insides.
"Your daughter, she..." he faltered, unable to complete the sentence. "She didn't happen to attend—"
"Fuck." The whispered curse was forceful but not without a trace of bewilderment. She turned toward the wall and began gently pounding her forehead against it in time with her mantra. "Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck...."
"Well, that's a first," he muttered to himself. A rolodex of fragmented faces riffled before his eyes and he sank to the ground, burying his head in his hands. He wasn't sure how long they remained that way before she stepped back and said cheerfully,
"It's certainly embarrassing, but I guess this settles it."
"Settles...? I guess it does." Her change in mood had him off balance and he regarded her cautiously.
"So, this," she gestured between them, "never happened."
Rising, he nodded. "I guess it didn't."
Satisfied, she smiled. "I'm off, then." He followed her around the corner, his jumbled thoughts noting that she walked a bit too quickly.
As she reached for the door, he tried a last time. "Wait."
She turned back slowly.
"Can't we—What about—Why?" he stammered, hardly feeling his age and fully aware of the irony.
Reaching up, she cupped his cheek, and it cut him in two. Her sad smile was the right amount of salt. "Those ties?" she said softly. "These ties?" she expanded, gesturing through the doors with her free hand. "They're earthly. A labyrinth that you don't know you're in, twisting and turning and guiding you with walls of tradition and expectation." Trailing her fingers along his jaw, she let it drop, and he saw the sorrow fade from her gaze. "They're short walls, though. I could climb; you can fly, Angel." She said it as though it were a name, not an endearment, beaming up at him. "Don't let them clip your wings, Warren," she finished with a wink, before slipping through the gauzy white curtains. They flew up, almost as if to emphasize her words.
"X-Men," he called out suddenly, and could have sworn he saw the flash of her smile through the sheer drapes before she vanished altogether.
He stood still, oblivious to the dancing curtains' beckons, his mind twining an elaborate tapestry of fresh thoughts and buried memories. Rather than rejoin the party, he moved to the spot where she had stood earlier, now under the muted twinkling of stars, moon hidden by promise of rain and rejuvenation. More relaxed than he'd been in months, his eyes scanned the lowering mist in search of distant lands.
Lost in thought, he barely felt his shoulder blades twitch.
The sun beat between my shoulders like carnival drums
I sat still in hopes that it would help my wings grow
So then I could really be fly
And then she arrived
Like day break inside a railway tunnel
Like the new moon, like a diamond in the mines
Like high noon to a drunkard, sudden
She made my heart beat in a now-now time signature
Her skin a canvas for ultraviolet brushstrokes
She was the sun's painting
She was a deep cognac color
Her eyes sparkled like lights along the new city
Her lips pursed as if her breath was too sweet
And full for her mouth to hold
I said, You are the beautiful distress of mathematics.
I said, For you, I would peel open the clouds like new fruit
And give you lightning and thunder as a dowry
I would make the sky shed all of its stars like rain
And I would clasp the constellations across your waist
And I would make the heavens your cape
And they would be pleased to cover you
They would be pleased to cover you
May I please cover you
please
AN II: I'm really not pleased with this, actually, but I wanted to post it for feedback, to see what others thought. I may initiate a re-write to fix it and make it darker, less tangible. Anyway, I never beg for reviews but if you have an opinion, I'd love to hear it. Thanks.
AN III: Okay, the ending has been adjusted. I've never been one to think, and neither have my reviewers (which only increases my respect for them), that Tristan played a large part in the Gilmores' life, but I wasn't sure how to spark the recognition between these two subtly. Instead, I took it out. Thanks for the feedback!