No One's Gonna Love You More Than I Do

Setting: before, during, and after Those Are Strings, Pinocchio

Summary: It is not a feeling you've had before but, now that you have, it's not one that you're willing to give up on quite so easily. Lit. One-shot

Disclaimer: Lyrics and title go to Band of Horses. (I hear their songs, I get an idea. It just happens.)

A/N: So this was meant to be a small little nothing one-shot, but somehow I just found myself adding to it and adding to it which is why it still doesn't feel like it's finished. But, I can't have this just sitting on my desktop anymore, staring at me, so I give it to you.

(It's looking like a limb torn off)

When you pull away from him, you feel…off-kilter, unbalanced, as if kissing him for the moment is all you should be doing.

It is not a feeling you've had before but, now that you have, it's not one that you're willing to give up on quite so easily. His hand on your cheek, you cannot feel anything else, besides you don't want to. Your forehead against his, all you can think of is kissing him again and regaining your equilibrium—consequences be damned.

You break away for air and, apart from him you stumble, your balance is lost. Your mind swirls with disastrous scenarios that don't really seem to connect or make sense but always end with hurting Dean, the one person you promised you wouldn't—all because, in this moment, you didn't think of the consequences.

Damn.

You push Jess away when all you want to do is pull him closer. Your hand brushes across slightly bruised lips and tear stained cheeks as you fight everything within you not to turn back around to be with him and you hope, as you run back to stand in place as a proper bridesmaid, that it doesn't show on your face.

(Or altogether just...taken apart)

Focus.

You pinch the bridge of your nose for the fourth time, then run your fingers up and down it, trying to soothe the ache you feel. Your hand reaches toward the phone of its own free will for the third time, but once again you come to your senses at the last second. You crumple up the sixth sheet of notebook paper on your desk and toss it over your shoulder towards the garbage can but it doesn't quite make it in.

At the moment, you're wondering just how many people are going to listen to any speech you make, if they care, if it'll even be good enough to make them care.

Of course you'll be great. You always are. When you realize the voice at the back of your mind sounds remarkably familiar, you can't help but wonder why it is that he's always cheered you on but when you offered up the same encouragement, he cut himself off, that's it, no more, case closed. It's the one thing that you actually hated about him.

(He never really gave himself a chance.)

You stare at the top of the paper: Students, parents, faculty… Blue and red lines begin to blur against a great expanse of white. Your head drops against the side of the desk, but you don't feel anything, not right away. You don't move until, suddenly, Lorelai's voice, sharp and perky behind you:

"Perfecting your Janice impersonations?"

"Huh?"

"`What were you thinking?'" Lorelai mimics. She throws her hands up dramatically before going into a diatribe of 'smiling with your eyes'.

"America's Next Top Model, Mom? Seriously?"

"I can never resist a marathon. No matter how much I hate a show, if I find out there's a chance to watch endless hours of episodes that will turn my brain into nothing but mindless pop culture trash spouting dribble, I just cannot walk away. It must be some sort of disorder."

"Must be."

She tilts her head, the look in her eyes one you've been trying to miss lately. Worry. "You know, you could take a break, let your mind mush a little. It'll be 'fierce'…" The slight little jazz hands are a bit amusing, but still you glance back over your shoulder, at the phone on your desk and hope you're not too obvious. But, you always are.

Always.

"Are you still worried about…?"

"Worried about what?" School? Yes, but not as much as you should be. It's a tie, really.

Before, school has always come first, tied with nothing. Always. This is a first. You're not sure how you feel about this.

"...You know."

"Oh. I'm just—" you stop, shaking your head, not sure how to phrase it.

"Trying not to think about it?"

"Trying so hard not to think about it."

(We're reeling through an endless fall)

It almost happened once before. You're a repeat offender, and you can't be trusted.

You don't think he knew what you were thinking, what you were considering— you weren't even completely sure. You didn't realize what you were doing until you were tilting your head, biting on the inside of your cheek as you watched him lick the sides of his cone, and you were leaning forward. The next thing you know, mint chocolate chip's dripped onto your fingers and he's smirking over at you, reaching over to wipe at the mess.

The sound he made almost resembled a laugh, his lips quirked up into the smallest intimation of a smile; it was…nice. You wanted to kiss him then, you know that, can't forget that no matter how hard you tried.

"Rory?"

You want to believe you're doing the right thing, staying with Dean.

You are glad you've taken the time to think the whole thing through before doing the wrong thing—ergo choosing Jess. When, in the end, he'd only hurt you. Of course, when you see him with Shane you are all the more convinced the decision you've come up with is the right one.

You have always prided yourself on being the rational one, and Dean is obviously, the more rational choice. Sensible. Smart. Safe. Rational. Dean, who is sweet enough to buy you ice cream on your study break.

You hate how you can sometimes forget that side of yourself where Jess is concerned while, with Dean, that part has always remained intact.

But then again, therein lays the difference between cups and cones.

"What were you saying?"

And you shake your head at how easily you try to compare them. Because, in truth, there is no comparison.

(We are the ever living ghost of what once was)

I'll call you, he said. You wanted to think he was telling the truth and you almost had yourself fooled. You were so close to believing it, but then you looked back. You just had to look back.

When you glanced back, you saw that broken promise in his eyes. Saw him hiding behind a lie he couldn't, for one reason or another, tell you about. But, he probably figured, what's another in a line of many?

You know that isn't fair, that the blame can't be solely put on him but it still hurts, him lying to you, him not trusting you, regardless of whether you knew about it or not. A part of you wants to cry as you sift through Lane's three hundred prom pictures and, if you didn't love Lane as much as you do, throw them against the wall.

I can't get tickets, he said and you were close, so close to pulling him towards you and telling him it's okay, it wasn't like you bought a dress already. (But, really, it was never about that.)

But, unlike Lane, you won't have three hundred pictures to reminisce upon— just the one, a candid shot that not even Jess knows about, tucked away between the pages of a book that you can't read without pause anymore simply because it's home to this photo.

(But no one is ever gonna love you more than I do)

"I know you had this crush…"

Your mother's words are loud in your ears, and the only thing you hear as you walk up to the cash register to pay for your meal. It's as if they're stuck on repeat, on a never ending loop that plays inside your head.

Your luck: Luke is on an errand in Woodbridge and Caesar is busy; Lorelai ducked out the door still chewing on her burger to control something at the inn. Your luck: it's Jess who is standing behind the counter, leaning forward on his forearms, the tips of his hair brushing against the pages of a novel you don't want to be curious about.

You try to convince yourself that this is a bad thing, being forced to interact with him, alone and unsupervised, but then, unbidden: "I know you had this crush…"

And you are suddenly acutely aware of the ten dollar bill crumpled and lonely in your open palm, nothing but a thin layer of green paper between his hand and yours. You hover, hesitant to reach forward, pull back, to do anything.

You hope you aren't blushing.

He looks up and his gaze is unguarded, for a moment, clear. It reminds you of how he looked, the first time you kissed, which you know you shouldn't think about but the thought flies into your head that it's nice and you don't try to push it out. "Uh, hi."

He nods, doesn't say much else but doesn't look away either. "What are you reading?"

He tilts the book upright. The Crying Lot of 49. You remember telling him about it, months ago during a different time when it didn't feel like you were committing a criminal act just by talking in public. Months ago, when you could trust yourself to limit your interaction to just to talking. "Oh. How is it?"

"Better than I thought. You can borrow it, if you want."

You look at your hands for the briefest second, shake your head. "I really don't think that's a good idea."

"It's just a book, Rory."

You shake your head again to try to clear the rush of sound sing-songing its way throughout your head. "I know you had this crush…"

But it's so much more than that.

(No one's gonna love you more than I do)

Wishes are for children.

Your eyes are on your ceiling, your fingers are running through the pages of your yearbook but at the moment you're not really looking at either one of them. You're someplace else entirely, not really present.

Really, you should know better by now. You should know that there are things that you can't change, things that aren't going to be different no matter how much you want them to be—no matter how much you wish.

You'll probably never know why he left, the real reason and not the speculated one everyone came up with because he was too scared too proud too whatever to say anything, to talk to you. Because he didn't— you don't know why but he didn't. Why didn't he? You wish—

You slide your yearbook (stupid memories, stupid wishes) closed and sigh.

Wishes are for children.

Still, you can't help but wish he was here.

(And anything to make you smile; it is my better side of you to admire)

You weren't really sleeping. From the smirk on his face as you open the window, you wonder if he knows that. (Probably. More than likely.) "Hey."

"Hey back."

You lean forward, palms pressed flat against the windowsill. He moves toward you, but you stay just where you are, faces so close you can feel the wisp of his breath on your skin. (Which, you note, is not a bad feeling at all.) "Just what do you think you're doing?"

He reaches for your hand, threads his fingers through yours. "Just saying hey."

You can't help but smile at that one, blush and all. "Really?"

"Really." You have a small, tiny feeling there's a bit more to it than that, but still you hold his face between your hands as you kiss him, your porch light flickering somewhere above your heads.

(But someone, they could've warned you...when things start splitting at the seams and now)

It's stupid, but you've been sort of hoping for your mystery caller to be him.

No, not sort of. You've desperately been wanting, wishing, needing for it to be him on the other end of that line, just so you can talk to him, listen to him tell you how much he misses you—and yell at him for leaving.

It's stupid and completely not like you; you just hate the fact that he left— again— the way that he did; you hate how you ended things. You hate the simple fact that the two of you ended things. You hate the fact that you never told him you love him. You hate how you're letting what you feel override what you know: he left, he hurt you, he's gone, he's not coming back.

But, mostly, you just hate the fact that you never told him you love him.

You tell yourself that it's the not knowing, the unanswered questions that keep you from hanging up the phone, not the fact that you still care.

Because you shouldn't. You really, really, shouldn't.

And yet your grip on the cell phone is iron tight; you'd take on Hulk Hogan if he tried to snatch it from you.

"Jess?"

The empty halls of Chilton echo your voice; for a moment, the only sound you hear is his name, reverberating off ornate, historical tile.

"Jess, I know it's you…. Aren't you going to say anything?"

Jess' sigh and nerves travel to Hartford through the phone lines, increasing your own unease about this conversation. Or, rather, what this conversation could turn into.

You give him another long heavy minute to respond before you launch into it. "Fine, if you're not going to talk—"

Another sigh and then, finally: "Rory."

The sound of his voice is a little startling. For all the time you have spent hoping for it to be him, you've never actually expected for him to say anything. You've been anticipating same old Jess, walking away without a word. That Jess, you're prepared for.

"I—" His pause makes your breath hitch in your throat, but then he speaks and you can exhale again. "I'm so sorry, Rory. You have no idea."

Your anger deflates and you shake your head, then roll your eyes at the fact that he can't see what you're doing. You open your mouth to speak but can't think of anything that sounds good enough; all your verbosity and wit have been completely unraveled by a few short words.

"You're sorry? Jess, what happened? I don't understand." You take a breath and gather up the courage to ask, "Was it something—"

"No, Rory, just it's not your fault, okay? Don't worry about it."

"Don't worry about it …Well, gee, that's comforting. Especially coming from my boyfriend who just leaves without a word—again doesn't tell me where he's going, if he'll be back. Why won't you just tell me what's going on with you, Jess? What, do you expect me to wait for you forever?"

His response is quiet.

"I just wanted to say…sorry."

You hate just how badly you want to forgive him. (But you aren't completely willing to let yourself. Not yet.)

(The whole thing's tumbling down...)

You haven't really seen him much since you poured your heart out to him on the bridge but honestly, you prefer for it to be that way.

You can't help but feel as if you're on display. Stripped and bare, almost. It's strange; even at your most vulnerable you have never felt this way. You've never enjoyed putting yourself out on a limb of susceptibility.

You roll over, burying down under the covers and staring at the clock over on the dresser. The red numbers on the digital clock are blurry but you can see enough to know you should have been asleep a while ago. Not that it matters anymore. You won't be sleeping tonight.

(Your mind won't stop playing over and over: "Well, he's right about me, then.")

Taking one last look at the clock, you get out of bed, slipping on a sweater and a pair of socks. Your feet, you shove into some slippers, and allow them to take you wherever they want to go.

Outside, the rain has let up to simply a light drizzle. You're still cold, rubbing your hands up and down your arms, at least until you notice him standing near the porch, looking as if he's been debating one of life's great mysteries.

You walk toward him as he slips a cigarette between his lips. You've always hated that he smokes yet you can't get enough of the smell on him (something you've kept to yourself and will take to your grave if need be).

Besides, it's not really your place to tell him what to do. (Yet, anyway.)

"What are you doing here?"

"Just walking."

"I thought you quit," you murmur, once close enough, thumbs hooked in your pockets.

He shrugs, lifting one shoulder and letting it drop slowly. "Changed my mind."

You glance at the ground, focusing in particular at a spot where two leaves were stuck together in the mud. (Huh.)

You swallow, then look up at him, noticing he's been staring, too. You get the nerve to inch a little closer, your noses almost touching and rest your hands lightly on his hips. Suddenly, feeling bold, "Gonna change it again?"

He shrugs again, stepping as close as humanly possible. "If I'm given good enough reason."

You dip your head, lips meeting his slowly. "How's that?"

"Can't argue with that logic, can I?"

You smile. "I know I wouldn't."

(...hard.)

You're in the middle of a dream.

You're running or reaching for something, just out of reach, just out of limits. Your fingers brush against it and then, they don't and, suddenly, you're on the floor tangled up in bed sheets and flat on your back, staring up at the ceiling. The floor is cold and unforgiving, and you can't help but feel like it's personal.

You sigh, lay your forearm over your eyes and stay there for a moment, unmoving. Then you hear it. Hear something, you think. It's soft, light, just loud enough for your ears only.

You bite your bottom lip, disbelieving of what you're seeing. You lean back and then forward, resting your forehead against the window for just a moment before lifting it open. Then, you speak. "What are you doing here?"

"I came back."

"I see that…Why?"

"I just wanted—I wanted—" He can't seem to get the words out and for once, you can't (won't) fill in the blanks for him.

"What?"

"You." Jess, in all his glory, crouched before you, is offering up his heart on a platter.

"Jess…" You shake your head, not entirely sure what you should take away from that.

"I'm sorry. I should have told you—"

You're leaving for Europe in less than three days. This is the last thing you want, and the first thing you need. Really, the only thing you want to do more than kiss him is to go back to sleep. "Jess, shut up."

You grab his hand and pull him forward. "I'm tired, okay? We can talk tomorrow."

"You'll be here when I wake up?"

"I'll be here." His nod is slight, imperceptible, almost.

But it's there.