Disclaimer: Gilmore Girls belongs to Amy Sherman-Palladino and the WB/CW.
A/N: Thanks for reading. If at the end you have a second to review, I'd appreciate it.
"Why did you come here?"
Winter's late dawn at the curtain-edges of 608.
A better motel would have had blackout blinds. She should have been cold because the heater was shot and gave out more noise than warmth. The blanket was thin above the sheet, thinner still, that kept its rough pile off her. But from the sole of her foot on his calf, her thigh drawn across his hips, to her cheek in the hollow of his shoulder, she basked on his skin.
"Honestly?" she said.
"Rory -"
"I told you already, Jess."
The room looked different. She could see in the dark.
His jacket where it hung on the chair-back. Hers heaped on the vanity countertop. Above it the long, empty mirror staring blankly at the wall above their heads.
Propped on her side with her other fist pressing her cheek, she felt the rise and fall of his chest beneath her hand.
His eyes, open, looking at her. Black and white because of the darkness. The cinema of a hand reaching towards her face, pushing back her hair to draw a thumb over her cheekbone. Fingertips under her jaw tracing down.
One silhouetting her.
Neck.
Shoulder.
Arm.
Jump to the cut of her waist.
Slight hip-swell.
Following her thigh's reach closer as her knee crooked over him.
The sudden arch brought her toes up to plant themselves either side of his spine, quaking cold against muscles that tensed, firing. The splay that came when her breath returned freed his mouth to kiss its way back up towards her. Not fast enough as she levered herself on her elbows, a tautening knee at his side and her fierce kiss drawing him down.
Temptation. Nearly totally abandoned.
Not quite reckless. The pause and stretch and fumble into pockets hard to find in heaps beside the bed.
Her knee settled on his hip again. Not breathing, hearing him breathe. Instead, the quick breath came with the hand that eased her thigh towards her chest; with the look that watched her bite her lip. That was still there when she opened her eyes.
Slow frenzy.
No longer slow.
The rhythm broken as he snatched her up, casting a V on the wall the mirror saw twice.
An elliptical O as their lips met.
The dim bedside lamp, burning all this time he'd been away, threw their shadows aslant when he held the door for her then tossed his jacket on the chair.
She explored the scored countertop with its burn-scars and blooming stains. Gripped its notched edge and rested against it as she turned her back to the mirror.
Facing the bed but not looking at it. Where the headboard should be but wasn't.
"Rory?"
It roused her and she caught the questioning look. The folded arms dropping, palms outward. Straightening where he stood.
She pushed up and off, catching him in a half-step aside as if out of her way towards the door.
Before her hands had touched and rested on his shoulders, her mouth found its way faster onto his.
Off balance under her momentum and the wrong-footed step, instinct righted him as he felt for her waist.
He would have said something as they pulled into the lot, but she had stepped out and closed the door as soon as they came to a stop. Propelled headlong by the forward motion. She paced round the length of the car and stood waiting by his driver's door as he shifted into park and swung himself out on its hinges.
He could speak now.
She turned back from scanning rows of motel windows, her lower lip clamped.
He couldn't.
In the end it was too cold to stay talking in circles beside the car. She got in and he pulled away from the curb.
The minute's silence held until the first stoplight.
"So," he said. "Where to?"
"Which motel are you at?"
"Does it matter?"
"Is it nice?"
"Not really."
"I don't care," she said, swivelling to face the glass.
"Rory -"
"Jess, you said choose, okay?"
She had finished the last cup of coffee. The last slice of pizza.
Outside she asked him, "Are you driving back to Philly?"
"Not tonight."
"Where are you staying? With Luke?"
"Motel."
"Oh."
"You?"
She shrugged. "I don't know."
"You need a ride?"
"I could get a cab."
"Okay," he said, nodding acceptingly.
"I should go home."
"Your grandparents'?"
"No. My mom. But ... "
She hesitated.
"But what?"
"I don't know."
He waited, rocking on his heels with his hands in his pockets.
"I want to fix this," she said. Called up from her shoes at her last word.
It got another nod.
"Everything," she went on. "My mom. School. Me."
"Good."
"Paris lives near the campus. I could crash with her."
"You're a masochist," he said with a corner's skew of smile.
"Yeah."
His shoulders and his eyebrows drew up as he asked, "Got her address?"
"No."
"Rory, it's freezing. Decide."
"You can go."
"No. I can't. You gotta choose."
Sitting opposite him in the booth, she took a sip of her soda. Steeling herself with a long breath.
"I stole a yacht."
"Huh. Now that Luke did not allude to."
"It's embarrassing."
"Because?"
"Because it's not me. I don't know why I did it."
"No?"
"Well," she paused, then chanced the explanation. "You know in Moby Dick when the narrator says he takes to the sea to keep from knocking people's hats off?"
He was nodding and swallowed the mouthful of his drink to ask, "So what happened to make you so depressed?" Then, frowning, he added, "And misanthropic."
"And maleficent," she appended sheepishly. Gripped her glass with all ten fingertips and looked into it. "Someone told me I'd make a good assistant but wasn't cut out to be a journalist."
"And you took 'em seriously?" He was incredulous, frowning harder, and it made her smile. "Why? Who was it?"
She shook her head and rubbed not gently between her brows as if prompted by the contraction in his. "It doesn't matter," she told him. "Not now."
"Come on, who is this jackass? I don't get how you'd believe what they said." One of his palms turned over on the table like another question, and it reached towards her a few inches when he said, "And can't we devil-egg his car or something? Or did your mom already do that?"
Her grin widened. "I forgot I told you that. Maybe I'm more into crazy, destructive behaviour than I realized, huh?"
"Your impulsive streak?" A wry look. Pizza's point accusatory at her. "Don't tell me you're still in denial."
She rolled her eyes. "No. I know it. But - -I don't know. They're not always such bad decisions."
"Nope," he said around a mouthful.
"It's a balance, isn't it?" she said, her head on one side. "I don't think I've got a handle on it yet, but I will. Hopefully. Control versus spontaneity, I mean. Heat of the moment and stuff. The unexpected."
"Like, are you gonna watch or hit the dirt when the RPGs start coming over whatever godforsaken outpost you're embedded at?"
"Exactly like that," she said with a new grin. Then shrugged a shoulder. "I'll get the hang of it."
He shrugged too, looking serious. "Sometimes it's just dumb luck though."
"I suppose." Nodding. Thoughtful. "I wish I knew when to go with my gut, you know? I mean, some chances you just have to take, don't you? If it feels right, anyway. Overthink it and it's gone."
"Sounds about right." He leaned forward on an elbow, his knuckles in his cheek. Looking at her with one raised eyebrow. "But piracy? Optional, or not?"
Taking up another slice in both hands, over its toppings she said sagely, "Ah, when the time comes that's your call. Sorry."
"I'll keep it in mind," he deadpanned, taking his own bite as she sniggered through hers.
"But honestly," she said, swallowing behind a hand, "how do you take criticism?"
With a mouth still full he managed, "Badly."
"See, me too. Something else I think I need to work on. Toughen up a bit, maybe. Get a little of your writerly pugnacity or something."
"Hey," he said and frowned at her. "Thought I restrained myself pretty well back there."
"Oh, you did," she said, and with exaggerated sincerity added, "A+."
"Thank you." Accepted with equally exaggerated graciousness.
"Criticism and consequences," she mused aloud. "Like death and taxes if you think about it."
"Huh," he dropped, settling back in the booth. "Feeling aphoristic?"
She made a face at him and continued, "Good and bad, too. No matter what you choose, or what you write, or ... anything."
"In that case Confucius, this jerk needs some consequences, doesn't he? Tell me he doesn't." That provoking, supplicating palm.
"Maybe," she shrugged. "Seriously though, it doesn't matter. I'm over it. Or I will be. I'm going to get back on track and prove him so very, very wrong."
"'Course. But none of that means I don't wanna kick his ass."
"And I appreciate that," she said with a brisk nod, composing her face into something like seriousness. A king acknowledging the fealty of his duke.
"You're welcome."
A moment as she pressed her lips together and turned them up at the corners. "I missed this."
"Pizza? Philosophizing over pizza?" Eyebrows climbing in two-stages.
"Fine," she said, eyes rolling before she fixed him and with half-begrudging emphasis clarified, "I missed you then," softening as she went on, "I'm glad we could catch up. After everything."
A replying smile to hers but wordless.
She chased with her straw ice long since melted into slivers as she asked him, "So tell me about these four other guys you work with."
"Why? Want me to set you up? On the rebound so soon?"
"Shut up, Jess." A laugh in her breath.
"Yeah," he smirked. "I missed that."
On the sidewalk, pulling her coat around her self-consciously, he saw her as soon as he rounded the block. It was a small smile that greeted him as he got out of his car and asked her, "Did you want to go back inside?"
She slightly shook her head. "No."
"Not hungry, or ...?"
"I actually prefer the place about a block from here," she said, pointing up the street.
"Okay."
She smiled more. "Better pizza. Smoother coffee."
"Sounds good."
She looked over her shoulder and her chin jutted sharply as she told him, "They liked it better here."
As they walked side-by-side she said without turning to him, "Thanks, Jess."
"For what?"
"Coming back."
"No problem."
"You were right."
"Look, I didn't mean -"
"I needed to hear it."
"Yeah, but -"
She craned round at him as she cut him off again. "Not that I didn't know it. I knew it," she said. "All of it. Knew it wasn't me - -That I wasn't me. But there's something comforting about denial, you know? About 'temporary.' And I'm good at it. Denial. So what you said - -I don't know. Maybe it was hearing it from you."
"Why?"
"Because you figured it out. About me, but I mean - -You were lost. Had nothing. And you figured it out."
"Seems that way, doesn't it?"
"You wrote a book, Jess. You made something. Achieved something. Something so great."
"You haven't finished it yet though."
"I still know I love it."
"Huh."
"I want that," she said, clasping arms around herself against the cold. "My path back. To make something of myself."
"You will." Offhand but reassuring still. Cool with inevitability.
"Thanks. And honestly, I think that's it. I need to stop doubting myself and just give it my best shot. Just ... be myself," she said.
He arched an eyebrow at her that asked with him, "Aren't you now?"
"Feels more like it than half an hour ago."
"Seems like it too."
"I'm glad it's over."
"Good," he said and looked keenly at her sidelong. "You look happier."
She elbowed him in the ribs. "Now you've stopped yelling."
"Sorry," got close to sounding earnest as it fell towards the sidewalk.
"I'm joking. And I am happier, so thanks. It's going to be a long road, I know. But I can do it. I want to."
"Huh. Sure as hell sounds like you."
She rolled her eyes. "Thank you. Oh, and I yelled too after you'd gone. I needed to."
"You sure? It's all out of your system? You can yell at me if you want."
"I'm good."
"Well, if you change your mind -"
"I'll let you know."
She stopped at a doorway and he asked, "Here?"
"This is it."
"Why not?" she asked down the phone to him.
"You know why."
"Do I?"
"I really am hawking the book around."
"I believe you."
"Been in Boston a couple' days. New York tomorrow probably. Heading back through, you know?"
"Okay," she said.
"College town. Arts' scene." Mental shrugs. Like it was self-explanatory.
"Right."
"You know why, Rory. I said already. Last night."
"Thank you, then."
"I wanted you to have it. To give it to you, like I said."
"I'm glad you did."
"Seemed like the thing to do."
"Are you sorry you did?"
"No."
"I'm sorry."
"What? What for?"
"That you left. That we didn't get enough time."
Something in her voice.
"Rory? You okay?"
"I will be."
"Tell me."
"I'm still here."
"On your own?"
"I'm going to be okay." Meant to sound firm.
"I know you are."
"Come back."
She walked out of Rich Man's Shoe and looked for a cab without seeing any. His book, not her cell phone, was what came to hand as she rummaged in her purse. Taken to drag out of him just a couple of words of inscription.
Her bookmark stood about two-thirds through it, and she rebuked herself for the instinctive white lie.
She meant she hadn't finished it.
She meant it's none of your business.
(As if anything could make this any worse.)
Any good?
If I say, what am I saying?
Yes, it is. Of course it is. I knew it would be. I read until my eyes hurt. I was exhausted. I couldn't sleep.
I should have said yes.
(But it would have made it worse.)
To have found it irresistible. To be made to say why.
Why yes.
She could hear it.
Oh? How so, Ace? What's so great about it? How about you gimme the digest? Sum it up in five words. Two then. Come on, Rory. No? Why not?
The page edges still furled under her thumb as another cab blurred past.
But then, looking down, she saw. Something had rifled away under her eye and she turned back.
Pencilled on one of the last blank leaves. A number.
He answered, "Jess Ma-"
"Why did you come here?"
"Rory?"
"Yes, Jess."
"So you made it to the end."
"Almost."
"You didn't skip ahead?"
"That would ruin it. I wouldn't do that. It's too good to spoil it."
"You think?"
"Yes. I almost don't want it to end."
"Huh."
"Why, Jess?"
"Honestly?"