Title: The Augmentation of Bitonal Battaglla
Rating: T
Date Started: 7-5-08
Date Finished: 7-18-08
Disclaimer: I don't own Gilmore Girls. It all belongs to Amy Sherman-Palladino and the folks at the WB.
Summary: Slightly AU. Rory stumbles upon Jess indulging in a secret talent. Season 2 timeline.
A/N: I just wanted to post this before I go away for a week. Enjoy.
It was humid, sticky, dense and swarthy and heavy on the back of his neck. Jess hitched his messenger bag a little higher on his shoulder and tried to walk exclusively on the shady patches of sidewalk. The concrete slabs reverberated waves of heat, the pavement sporting deep, fatal cracks in some places, crumbling at its edges and sagging at the corners. An early heat wave had taken hold of Stars Hollow, causing it's inhabitants to tread slowly, making sluggish, stifled movements in front of Dosey's Market and in the cool shade of Mrs. Patty's Dance Studio.
The sun was beginning to travel towards the western part of the sky, indicating afternoon or early evening. School had been dismissed over an hour-and-a-half ago, turning teenagers out to the blazing three o'clock rays. Jess had trudged home, books and papers in hand, only to lazily dump his possessions on his honey-stained oak desk and fish around in his back pocket for The Picture of Dorian Gray. He'd kicked off his shoes, removed his shirt, and lain face down on his bed while Luke's rickety ceiling ran clacked noisily in the background, serving as a contributing factor to his eventual annoyance with Wilde's flowery descriptions of trinkets and mouth formations.
Jess had marked his place by folding down the corner of the paper, pausing to toss his pencil into the drawer of his nightstand. Abandoning the paperback at the foot of his bed, he'd searched beneath its wooden frame and extracted his dusty, overlooked messenger bag. Jess flicked through the sheets of paper and deemed the collection sufficient. Donning a clean shirt and stepping into his battle-scared, cherry-red high tops, Jess had exited the apartment, leaving the fan on to stir the air while he was away.
--
The church was deserted, a little musty, but mostly cool due to surrounding trees. Jess shut the heavy-handled, pristine white door behind him quietly, his movements swift and calculated next to the modest stained-glass windows.
The stout wooden pews weren't cushioned or painted, a stark mahogany against the whitewashed trim and walls. Jess bypassed the Hymnal's tucked into the backs of the pews, the silver offering plate, the pulpit, and the engraved acolyte's cross, opting to take a seat at the discretely placed upright piano.
A small, untouched organ took up the majority of space to the left of the altar, an instrument that had been grand once but was now falling apart due to a lack of funds for repairs, a sad but truthful notice that Jess had read posted to the door on his way in. Apparently the church's congregation was attempting to raise the money for a new one.
Jess pulled out the battered piano bench and lifted the wooden key cover. The keys were slightly yellowed but they gave easily beneath his fingertips; they were weighted very lightly, not up to the standard of a modern piano. Digging through his messenger bag, he selected a packet at random and placed it on the music stand.
He surveyed the first two pages of Milo Giovonni's "Tarantella", remembering its rhythmic patterns and obnoxious tempo. Jess started with his index finger on E, playing a short intro and then copying the same collection of notes in two lower octaves. He settled his hands into the key of A and got to work, playing normally and then with his right hand crossed over his left.
His movements gradually began to speed up, playing more quickly in spite of himself. It was a flaw that Mr. Stoichev had been quick to point out when he'd been eight, and twelve, and sixteen. "You rush through song. Play again, better this time." A Russian and a former member of the Red army, he had been Jess's unofficial piano instructor for seven years.
Progressing into the mid-section of the piece, he switched to the key of D, playing the more memorable portion of the song. Jess would occasionally look up to glance at the exact sequence of the different sections but he had long since memorized the order of the actual notes. The reading lamp that was now being used to light his sheet music made soft shadows on the curves of the paper's folded spine. Jess had removed his watch before starting to free up wrist movement so he was unable to check the time, but the long shadows on the church's white walls indicated the movement of the sun. Making a quick appraisal, he determined that it must be close to six.
Jess switched to a Wynn Anne Rossi piece, something quiet and mellow and repetitive. Lifting the toe of his red tennis shoe, he left his heel firmly planted on the church floor while he held down the damper pedal, causing the notes to blend and fade. It was the kind of song that he expected to hear in pricey yuppie restaurants or in the background of a corporate elevator. It ended with a long trail of notes that spanned the length of the keyboard, a nice finish.
Closing the three-page packet of sheet music, Jess stuffed it into his bag. It was late; he had time for one more song before wandering home and evading any sort of questioning from Luke.
Jess zipped his bag closed and pushed his sleeves back, rolling the cuff past his elbows. Starting in the lower portion of the keyboard, he played one of the only songs he knew from memory, "Mon Légionnaire". It's changing speeds and dramatic quality made it a much more compelling piece. He would occasionally forget his surroundings, his concentration focused intently on the trained movements of his tapered fingers. Jess's precision was largely attributed to Mr. Stoichev's insistence on nothing less than perfection when interpreting Edith Piaf. Piaf was one of Stoichev's childhood favorites, a fact that held more weight than any of the classic composers combined. Mozart and Beethoven be damned.
He was pounding it out, speeding up in the sections that called for it and easing into the softer, more delicate potions with an astute musical ear. The church was a non-existing backdrop, senseless enough to barely serve as a distraction. The expansive whiteness ebbed along his peripheral vision. Notes crashing, hammering through a slightly out of tune Baldwin—but he'd never been an elitist—a symphony lacking trumpets and French cabaret singers, stiff competition when compared to the fictional Richard Haley, the epiphany absent for generations—
A sound. Jess turned, hitting a sour note.
A number of hardback books tumbled to the floor, Ken Keasy mixed with Henry Miller and Sylvia Plath, novels piled at the feet of Rory Gilmore. She blushed furiously and fumbled to pick them up.
"I'm sorry," she apologized, "I didn't mean to interrupt what you were doing. Keep playing, just ignore me—"
"What are you doing here?"
Books in hand, Rory stood up and adjusted the collar of her pale blue school shirt. "I was supposed to meet Lane on the corner after her bible class," she explained.
"It's cancelled. There's a note on the door." Jess averted his eyes, trying not to pay too much attention to Rory and her questioning gaze.
"I guessed that," Rory said, moving a few steps closer. "Do you play?" she asked, resulting in a shrug from Jess. A few more steps. "Do you mind if I . . ?"
"Here," Jess said, making room for her on the piano bench.
"What were you playing earlier?"
"Nothing."
Jess's hands traveled the distance of seven keys, climbing up and retreating.
"What was that?" Rory asked, her ponytail swishing while she turned her head.
"Just a scale," he smirked, "not a real song."
"Oh."
"It's easy," Jess took her right hand and placed each of her five fingers on a different key. "Play the first three, then cross your thumb underneath."
"You do it," Rory said, interested in watching him.
He repeated the action, but started on A instead of C.
"That one's different," she observed.
"There's a pattern for all of them," Jess explained easily, "you can start a scale on every key on the piano."
"It's not a complicated as it looks," he added.
"Says you," Rory tried the hand motion with little success.
Jess helped her through it a few times until she got the hang of it, showing Rory how to come down from the scale by going through all five of her fingers and crossing again with her third.
"Wow," she said wryly, "I feel so musical."
He rolled his eyes and plucked his bag from the nondescript carpeting. "Pick one," Jess offered, undoing the zipper.
"Can you play all of these?" Rory asked, looking at the titles.
"More or less, yeah."
Whipping out a packet of sheet music, she settled Beethoven's "Moonlight Sonata" onto the music stand.
He made a face. "What?" She questioned, "you told me to pick something."
"Something original," Jess clarified.
Huffing, Rory dug through the bag again and came up with a book of songs from The Phantom of the Opera.
"Warmer," he put it back in the bag, "you're getting there."
She took more time searching than before in an attempt to find something interesting. "Ha," Rory removed a few pages of sheet music triumphantly, "play this one."
Jess took the packet and glanced at the title, John Lennon's "Imagine".
"Good enough," he opened it and started at the chords.
Rory leaned out of the way to allow Jess some arm movement and watched him intently. Her cerulean eyes were trained on the concentrated line of his jaw, his unruly curls, the traces of fine, dark hairs on his forearms. She followed the patterns of his wry fingers over the piano keys, enamored.
Jess played the last few notes gracefully, ending the song. He closed the cover and watched Rory out of the corner of his eyes.
"Why didn't you ever tell me?" She asked, her pale hands toying with the keys.
He shrugged, evasive and aloof.
"I thought we were friends." Rory nudged him with her elbow, playful but reserved.
"Then do me a friendly favor and keep this to yourself." Jess said, looking at her, a sarcastic expression etched into his young face.
"What are you talking about?" She asked unbelievingly. "You don't want me to tell anyone that you play the piano?"
"That's exactly what I don't want you to tell anyone." Jess shoved the remaining papers into his bag.
"But why? You're really good; you should do something with it. You know, they pay people to play in here on Sunday's, it's a lot of money for an hours worth of time. Paris told me about this retirement home in Hartford that's always looking for people to volunteer for stuff like that. Oh, what about school? Stars Hollow High has a Jazz Band, they usually take two or three piano players . . . hey!" Rory squeaked, moving her hands quickly out of the way while Jess closed the key cover.
"No," he answered, slinging his bag over his shoulder and hacking his way through the menagerie of church pews.
"Jess," Rory called, scrambling to pick up her books. "Wait as second, jeez."
He stopped at the bottom of the church steps, his hands in his pant pockets, looking indifferent while leaning against the road-iron railing.
"Don't tell anyone," he repeated. Rory tucked some of her chestnut hair behind the shell of her ear, listening but not completely submissive.
"Does Luke know?" She questioned, their bodies cool in the shade of the surrounding trees.
"Luke doesn't know," Jess replied.
This development didn't exactly surprise her. "What about your mom?"
"I don't think I ever mentioned it to her."
Rory scuffed her saddle shoes nervously, "I guess that makes this privileged information—"
"Look," Jess started, "if anyone else had walked in there I would have left their severed hand in the offering plate, but because it's you I'll make an exception. That is, as long as you don't tell anyone."
She bit her lip in contemplation, "Couldn't you—"
"Rory," he sighed.
"Ok," she relented, "if it is that big of a deal to you, I won't tell anyone."
"Good," Jess said, giving her one last once-over before turning on his heel and walking away.
--
The microwave beeped cheerfully. "Popcorn's ready," Rory said, her voice carrying into the living room where her boyfriend sat in front of the television. She poured the contents into a bowl and joined Dean on the couch, settling the food between them and munching on a piece while he pressed the play button on the remote, starting the movie.
"What are we watching?" She asked, opening her coke can.
"High Fidelity," Dean answered, opening the pizza box he'd left on the coffee table and handing her a slice.
"Oh, cool," Rory said, "I love John Cusack in this. His rants are hilarious."
"I've never seen it."
"Then it's good we're watching it now. This movie is an essential part of modern culture." She chewed on a piece of pepperoni while the movie began to progress. Dean put his arm around her and she angled her upper body closer to him, their thighs separated by the popcorn bowl.
"Hey, Rory," Dean said, nearly twenty minutes into the movie.
Distractedly, she answered, "Yeah?"
"What were you doing earlier with Jess?"
Rory wore a frown while she sipped her coke. "What are you talking about?"
He shifted next to her. "You guys were standing in front of the church. I thought you were going to meet Lane."
Her eyes were fixed on the television screen. "Oh, that." She discretely tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear, her movements going unnoticed in the dark living room. "I went to meet Lane but her class had been cancelled," Rory wiped her hands with one of the many napkins that she'd left in a tall stack on the coffee table. "I was giving Jess a lecture."
Dean fixed her with a funny expression, "On what?"
She licked her lips before answering. "On the wrongs of stealing from religious establishments," Rory lied.
"Are you serious?" He asked venomously. "Jess stole from a church?"
"He put it back," she said quietly, "honest."
"You should tell someone."
Rory sighed, "Dean, no. Nothing was actually taken. Besides, Jess was probably just kidding with me. He's like that."
"Why are you so quick to defend him?" Dean questioned, retracting his arm.
"Because Jess is not a bad person," she assured.
"He stole from a church," he deadpanned, "in most circles that's referred to as bad behavior."
Toying with the tab of her soda can, Rory asked, "Lets just drop this, ok?"
"Ok," Dean said morosely, "whatever you say."
--
Jess shoved his curls out of his face with his elbow, holding his dripping, latex-covered hands at a distance. He rinsed off a few soapsuds and dried the dish with a spare towel, adding to the neat stack on his right. Caesar glanced over every now and hen to make sure Jess was still working; it was common knowledge that Jess disliked washing dishes.
He took off his gloves while the water drained in the sink, storing the dried dishes in the cabinet. Jess left the kitchen to retrieve his book behind the counter.
"Jess!" Luke said, exasperated, "come here for a second."
"What?" He asked, shoving Out of Africa into his back pocket.
Luke cast a disgruntled look to the Reverend of the local church seated at the counter. "Reverend Skinner believes that you stole something from his church."
"What?" Jess repeated, this time incredulous. "Why the hell would I steal anything from a church?"
Shrugging, Luke glanced between the two of them.
The Reverend drank from his coffee cup and cleared his throat. "I received an anonymous tip yesterday stating that you stole 'items of value' from my church at approximately six in the evening on May 27th."
"An anonymous tip," Jess crossed his arms.
"The individual who gave me the tip wished to have his identity kept secret," Reverend Skinner explained.
"Well you can take your 'anonymous tip' and shove it right up your white, religious—"
"Jess," Luke interjected, brandishing his order pad, "enough!"
"—Ass." Jess finished, walking around the counter and closing the door loudly behind him.
--
Rory jogged down the street with her backpack half-open, holding two textbooks in her arms. "Jess!" She called, "wait up!"
Fishing for a cigarette, Jess held it between his lips and lighted the end with his Zippo. "It's bad manners for a woman to chase after a man," he said, exhaling smoke in her direction, "but I'm sure you already knew that."
They were standing in the shade, covered by trees, hiding from the blazing sun even at seven in the morning.
She stopped to catch her breath; Jess didn't offer to hold her books for her.
"It was lie," she said, "but I swear I didn't mean for you to get in trouble. Please believe me."
He regarded her silently, taking drags off his cigarette.
Rory ran her fingers through her hair and smoothed it away from her perspiring face. "Dean asked me why we were talking the other day, 'cause apparently he saw us, so I told him that you stole something and that I made you put it back because I'd promised that I wouldn't say anything about what you were really doing and I didn't have a lot of time to come up with a good story—"
"Your story was pretty believable."
"—And it just sort of came out. If they make you pay money or something I'll give it to you, it's my fault that they got the idea in the first place."
"Rory, stop," he touched her arm, "once they figure out that nothing's missing they'll forget about it. Ok? Breath a few times, will you? Your face is turning blue."
"Sorry."
Jess chuckled, "You poor girl," his thumb grazed her cheek, "you did all that lying for me."
She averted her eyes, "I don't break promises."
He reached into the left pocket of his jeans and pulled out a folded piece of paper. "Luckily, you won't have to fib much longer."
"What do you mean?" Rory asked.
"Read it," Jess instructed, showing her the form.
The extravagant letterhead at the top of the paper quickly gave him away. "Oh wow," she looked back up at him, "are you going there for school?"
"No," he shook his head, "that'd be way to expensive. But Julliard does do summer programs," Jess answered, making her laugh with excitement.
--
A/N: This was fun. I hope you guys liked it. Reviews are always appreciated.