Title: No Paradise
Rating: T
Date Started: 7-21-08
Date Finished: 8-10-08
Disclaimer: I don't own Gilmore Girls. It all belongs to Amy Sherman-Palladino and the folks at the WB. Title comes from a song by Anti-Flag of the same name.
Summary: "Are you and Rory having sex?" Luke asked. "No," Jess retorted, "we just enjoy undressing each other in the presence of ketchup and salt-shakers." Season three timeline. One Shot.
A/N: As far as I know, Jess has never spoken the words "I'm sorry" in his entire life, so I decided to stick to precedent and show that. Written for the August challenge for GilmoreSpecific. Enjoy.
She could feel her tights snagging, the thin, navy fabric prickling against the rough wood beneath her thighs. Rory timidly inched her leg around the curve of Jess's hip, shy and perseverant despite the protests of her tights. His hands burned her lower back, warm underneath her blue school shirt. She was sitting on a crate of bananas, the low-watt lighting of Luke's storeroom serving as a gateway to exploration. Jess kissed her lower lip and traced her neck with his olive fingers, grazing a faint correlation of freckles and undoing the top button of her blouse.
Rory leaned her head back while he kissed her chest, shyly touching the soft hairs at the base of his neck. He covered her mouth and unfastened the second button and then the third, exposing her shoulder. She grew slightly tense at this development, calming when Jess began to slowly kiss her, holding her face in his hands.
The soft pressure of lips, his hands on her lower back and in her hair, easing her to lean against a pile of white napkins with her legs dangling off the edge of the crate, her naked shoulder pressed into the folded stacks of paper, the curve of her breast against the pads of his fingers—
The door opened; a few trickling sounds from the dinner clattered behind Luke's silhouette. There was a silence, a psychological conundrum, a wrinkle in time that would have made Meg Murry drop her cynicism. An impasse of sorts that Rory shattered by scrambling to arrange her clothes. Her movements were the catalyst for action. Jess helped her off the crate and let go of her hand, retreating like a child from a hot flame.
"Stay exactly where you are," Luke said, pointing to Jess. He took a few steps forward while Rory felt the backs of her legs. She'd scraped them. Her tights were snagged, ripped, gaping and stained from where the wooden slats had rubbed her skin raw. She retracted her hand from the spot, looking down at the blood on her fingers.
Rory hid her hands behind her back. "I need to go," she said, her eyes downcast. Luke opened his mouth but she cut him off. "I promise that I'll tell my mom everything and insist that she punish me. Please, just let me go."
He stood aside, letting her quickly walk past him and out of the storage room, shutting the cream-painted door behind her. Rory took her steps gingerly, wrapping her Chilton coat around her shoulders and fastening a few of the buttons. She adjusted the straps of her canary yellow backpack so the bottom of it didn't thump annoyingly onto her injured thighs and started her walk home, wading through the room of dinner-goers and stepping out into the chilled, early April air.
--
Luke paced, his hands behind his back while Jess concentrated on the grain of the wooden table, shifting his eyes to stare down a jar of poppy seeds.
The pin-straight apartment reminded him of a monks cell; uncluttered, clean, Spartan-esque in it's decor. He knew better than to say anything. Jess was unsure whether he was going to be punished for making out with Rory at work, for trying to take off her clothes, or for trying to take off Rory's clothes while he was at work. He assumed it would be the later.
"Do you think this is funny?" Luke asked, pausing, taking in the indifferent expression worn by his nephew. "Because this isn't funny," he said, "It's a heath code violation."
Jess held back a snort, crossing his arms. "Luke," he started.
"No," his uncle interrupted, "you don't get to talk. I'm talking. I'm your employer and I'm speaking here."
He sank down a little in his seat and nodded.
"Are you and Rory having sex?" Luke asked.
"No," Jess retorted, "we just enjoy undressing each other in the presence of ketchup and salt-shakers."
"Don't get smart with me," he muttered, "answer the question."
"Well we definitely aren't now."
Luke drew out a chair and sat down, tired of pacing. "You aren't making this conversation any easier."
"You aren't making my sex life any easier." Jess replied, leaning on the back two legs of his chair.
"Sorry for the inconvenience," his uncle grumbled, "but as long as you live with me, and as long as you work for me, there won't be any sex in the storeroom, or the kitchen, or the diner, or the stairway, or the closet, or your room, or my room, or the bathroom. Understand?"
Jess pretended to evaluate what Luke was saying. "So the roof is ok then? Just don't kick the ladder."
"Enough!" His hand collided with the table, causing the jar of poppy seeds to jump. "In case you can't remember, you got sent to Stars Hollow because of stunts like this," Luke ranted, "getting caught with girls and ditching school and having an attitude . . . " he trailed off.
"My mother could care less about what I did with girls," Jess said, rubbing his closed eyelids. "She employed a very laissez-faire stance when it came to me and dating. I'd appreciate it if you'd adopt it as well."
"Jess," his uncle started, "you can't just have sex with someone like Rory in the storage room of my Dinner."
"Then where would you suggest?" His nephew quipped, "A park bench? Some strategically placed bushes?"
"You're missing the point here."
"What is this like for you?" Jess asked, losing his joking air. "Instant fatherhood. A trial run. Is this everything you thought it would be? Am I as horrible as any other son you could have hoped for?"
Luke's jaw disconnected with the rest of his face, "Jess, don't—"
"Stop parenting me," the front two legs of his chair came down with a loud clatter. "I get that you have rules and you want me to follow them, but don't try to give me some morality speal about how I'm supposed to act or how I'm should treat people." Jess lowered his voice from the dynamic volume it had begun to pick up, "I'm not asking for your permission."
Jess stood up, pushing his chair out and walking towards the door. He grabbed his jacket on his way out, leaving his uncle at the table, unresponsive to the nagging pull at his conscious.
--
Luke stirred the contents of the copper-bottomed pot, adjusting the temperature and mixing the assortment of vegetables. He left the soup on the stove and turned his attention to the Yankees game he'd left on earlier, the low rumble of rain drowning out the voice of the commentator. The apartment door opened and closed in quick succession. Jess stepped in quietly, removing his soaked jacket and tossing it in the laundry basket a few feet away while carefully removing his shoes by the door. He extracted a pulp of a paperback from his back pocket, staring at Beyond Good and Evil mournfully, noting the sopping pages.
Jess pushed his wet hair out of his eyes and padded over to his side of the apartment, removing his watch and tossing his damp wallet on the dresser. He scowled; his book would have to be replaced. The cheap, four-dollar copy had been printed on paper with the consistency of a Kleenex Tissue. It was ruined.
He'd been gone for close to three hours, sulking and wandering aimlessly until the dreary, mid-evening rain had made its appearance. Jess had trudged back to Luke's with his head down, trying not to gaze too enviously at the cheerfully lit houses on his way home, windows that were colored yellow by lamplight or blue from the glow of TV screens.
Jess let his trashed paperback fall unceremoniously onto the kitchen table, tapping his fingers on the broad, wooden backing of one of the mismatched chairs. Luke returned to his spot at the stove, carefully heating the vegetable soup and glancing every few minutes at the garlic bread in the oven.
The silence was like slow suffocation, Jess thought, a punishment much more painful than the harsh, clipped argument that they'd shared earlier. He watched while his uncle grabbed two fiesta bowls from the cabinet by the sink and filled them with rich, steaming soup.
"I didn't mean what I said."
Luke got out two glasses, adding a few ice cubes and pouring equal portions of water.
"I shouldn't have yelled at you," Jess continued.
The older of the two men opened the cutlery drawer and gathered two identical spoons, sticking them in the soup bowls and setting them down on the table along with the water glasses.
A brief silence occurred. Both men ate their dinner quietly, soundless save the occasional scrape of spoons against dinnerware.
Luke cleared his throat, his bowl empty. "I'm sorry for treating you like a child," Jess looked up from his piece of garlic bread. "You're eighteen, you are who you are. I just don't want you to make any poor choices in your life, that's all."
Jess nodded.
Luke picked up the book that his nephew had left on the table, gazing quizzically at the cracked apple on the cover.
"Nietzsche," Jess elaborated, "it's for this paper I'm writing."
"You're reading a book for school?'
"Yeah. It's mostly about how men aren't created equal. My paper's on how that idea was later adopted by people like Hitler and Ayn Rand and Anton LaVey." A pause. "I wanted to read the book anyway."
"You know, I've got a hairdryer in the bathroom," Luke said, "This looks fixable."
Jess made an inclination towards the muted baseball game. His uncle waved the question away. "I wasn't really watching it. I'm more of a Red Sox guy."
--
Luke went over the front and back covers of Jess' book with an iron, meticulously straightening out the wrinkles without burning the paper. After a few moments of work he handed the book over to his nephew, dry pages and all.
"Thanks," Jess said, smoothing down a strip of clear packing tape over the spine.
The older man nodded. "You're welcome," he replied gruffly.
They retreated to their separate sides of the apartment, both men preparing for bed. Jess changed out of his damp clothes and into a pair of worn, gray sweatpants. He tugged on a faded band T-shirt, a relic from his more reckless days, and reached to turn on his lamp, giving a slight pause.
An unopened box of condoms sat on his nightstand, the white label glaring against the cardboard: Trojans.
"Hey Luke," Jess said, attempting to keep laughter out of his voice.
"What?"
"Been to the pharmacy lately?"
Luke, for all his worth, remained serious. "Thought you should have some, you know, in case the occasion . . . arose."
Jess smirked.
His uncle started toward the bed, turning after a few steps. "It would be good to have some warning."
"Really?"
Luke nodded. "Yeah. Wouldn't want to 'knock the ladder'," he chuckled, quoting his nephew.
"I'll hang a sock on the door," Jess retorted coolly, tugging on the cord of his lamp and pitching the apartment into darkness.
Fin.