Title: Apologies That Don't Matter
Author: Maria (iluvmylowandbaseball/ lincmikejess)
Genre(s): Drama, Angst
Rating: PG-13/T
Summary: AU. Post 6.16 "The Real Paul Anka". Approximately fifteen years into the future. One-shot. Three months later, you know she's forgotten how light of a sleeper you are. You're not to blame for the tuberculosis that claimed your son.
(A/N): Well, this came to me last night (December 21, 2006). I honestly don't know when this will be up, but I will try to finish it today, because it's not a ten thousand-word story. Oh yeah, this is a one-shot.
(A/N 2): Okay, so maybe I lied. But that's all right. You didn't even know about it until today.
Disclaimer: All rights belong to the CW. I don't even know if AS-P owns Gilmore Girls anymore. However, AS-P created all the characters. I just merely came up with the idea for the story and the son in it. Don't sue.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXShe blames you.
She blames you for missing her doctor's appointment, for missing the anniversary of her mother's death, for missing her fancy newspaper dinner while you were out of town, promoting your own book and providing for her.
However, you don't question those accusations. You didn't mean to miss her doctor's appointment; you just so happened to be caught up in writing the first five chapters of your third book and you had to put your phone on silent, making it impossible for anyone to interrupt you.
You didn't want to drive all the way to her small hometown and you most definitely did not want to hold her while she cried her eyes out once more. Holding her wasn't the problem; the problem was offering to die, for her happiness, and resurrect her mother. That wasn't an option for her either.
You couldn't help being on the road during her dinner party. It was not intended. Your mind is still reeling from the earful she gave you that night; she yelled for ten straight minutes before quieting and crying because she missed you. The words brought tears to your own eyes and you wanted nothing more than to be in the same room with her, soothing her and running your hands through her hair (you could imagine it mounted on the top of her head, held in place by bobby pins, and wisps of it out of place).
"You were supposed to be there! I needed an escort! Don't you know how bad that made me look?" Your wife screams in your ear. You readjust the phone on your shoulder, still being the attentive husband you've become. "I guess you don't even care." Now this angers you and you cease unbuttoning your dress shirt to reply.
"Don't say that. You know this is important to me. I just couldn't be there, for once. I didn't mean for my schedule to be like this. You know I knew about your dinner before I got my hands on my itinerary. My agent didn't, though, and he couldn't reschedule the promotion in New Hampshire. I wanted to be there for you. I thought we both understood this." Sighing, you sit in the chair next to the breakfast table in your suite and close your eyes, dropping your head into your hands and rubbing your hands over your face.
"You've been missing a lot of things lately," she whispers, sending shivers down your spine.
"I'm sorry," you reply, in the same tone as her. A ragged sigh resonates in your ear and you wonder if she's okay.
"I'm fine." Apparently you asked this out loud, but you shake it off, glad to be reassured.
"You sure?"
"I just… Can you come home?" The tears in her voice scare you and you wish you were sitting next to her, hugging her until she threatened to die from choking.
"I can't," you answer reluctantly. "Just two more cities, five more days. I'll be home soon," you find yourself reassuring, both you and her.
"I miss you," she says almost indistinctly.
"I miss you, too."
Her work schedule has changed drastically since three months ago. She works basically twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week (you're really just over exaggerating). She leaves early in the morning, before you get up for work; she returns late at night, well after midnight. You only catch glimpses (and nothing more) of your wife on the weekends. But when she is around, she may as well not be.
The only times she is home before you arrive are the nights when you call her to tell her you'll be home late (normally once every two weeks) because of a meeting with your employees. When this occurs, you make it to your house to find it smelling less eerie than earlier in the day. The dust is lifted from the end tables, the black marble floor shines, the rooms smell of apples and cinnamon. You basically live for those nights, when you are assured that a small fraction of your wife is unburied, waiting for those same nights to reveal it. She's always adored the scent of apples and cinnamon.
There's an inexpensive frame on your desk in the study; the outer border is blue, the inner border is white and the little decorations are oceanic colors. The picture inside is of the three of you, at a beach in South Carolina.
The memory of it all washes over you and you collapse into your desk chair.
She's wearing a summer dress, white, with a light green lace circling its bodice and a bow tied at the front, under her breasts.
You look younger that summer than you do now. Your face is clear of facial hair; the hair on your head is the floppy mess you always hated when you were younger and your dark eyes are actually burning holes into your chest. Your right arm is wrapped lovingly around her waist as your left arm hangs off his right shoulder.
He's about four feet, ten inches tall. Black hair, dark blue eyes and a mouthful of straight white teeth are among his best features. You sniffle as you examine the beam on his face, the stripes on his shirt and the denim of his shorts. The spiked hair reminds you of yourself as a teen.
A tear cascades down your cheek as you remember it wasn't that long ago when you all took that vacation to Myrtle Beach. It was last summer, before anything happened.
He was the most deserving eleven-year old you would ever meet.
"Your son has miliary tuberculosis."
You inhale deeply, feeling as if one lung has collapsed, and hunch over to rest your head in your hands.
"It's the deadliest form of TB out there, Mr. and Mrs. Mariano. The bacteria has spread throughout his entire body and I'm afraid it's going to be hard to treat."
Tears fall rapidly now, running down the inside of your forearms and staining the material of your sweatpants.
"There's always hope Brett will survive. We just haven't seen a miracle yet."
The ring of the telephone startles you and you can't bring yourself to lift a finger.
If it's important, the person will leave a message.
"He's stopped responding to treatment, Luke. I—I can't, I don't know what to do anymore."
"Bring him to Connecticut, maybe the Gilmores can help."
"I'm not counting on Richard to get me out of this. Besides, Rory wouldn't dare ask. And neither do I."
"He's your son, Jess. What other options do you have?"
The answering machine beeps but no message is left.
"I'm going to Hartford."
Nevertheless, you look up to find the small red light blinking.
"Driving or flying?"
You remind yourself to throw the damn thing out.
"Flying."
………………
She's been in the bathroom for thirty minutes. You know she assumed you're asleep. You guess she's forgotten how light of a sleeper you are.
"I didn't mean to wake you," she whispers, a strip of yellow light from the bathroom blinding you. Her tone is cold despite the apology forced out of her mouth.
"It's okay," you reply, eyeing her as she flicks the light switch quickly. She strides across the room as you readjust your eyes to the dark.
"How was work?" you ask politely, hating the turn your relationship has taken.
"Just work." She climbs into the bed, as far away from you as possible.
"Are you hungry?" You can't help but be concerned.
"Not really." You nod even though her back is turned to you.
………………
The sun is shining through the window curtains. It splays over her upturned face and across the pink tank top of her pajamas. You've been observing her for the last five minutes and contemplating your move.
You're finally going to act on it.
Scooting over cautiously, you try not to startle her. You slip your hand gently across the exposed skin of her stomach and reach the other side of her body. Once you grip her, you pull her toward you precariously.
She grunts childishly and flips onto her left side. You sigh but pull her back into your chest and bury your face in her neck, the scent of sleep streaming through your nostrils.
You feel her jump in your hold and you pull your head back, startled.
"What are you doing?" she inquires, voice laced with drowsiness as she pushes your arm off her. "Jess."
"What?" you ask innocently.
"Don't," she states through gritted teeth.
"What's your problem?"
"What's yours?"
"I'm just pissed off that my wife doesn't show any kind of fucking affection anymore!" you yell, sitting up and running a hand through your unruly hair.
"Don't say that."
"It's true," you utter, throwing your legs off the side of the bed. You walk to the bathroom, a clean shirt and a pair of jeans slung over your shoulder. "You know it's true," you throw back, turning to face her. She's sitting up, her blanket pooling in her lap.
…………………
The wind is pushing against you as you make your way across the field, the grass plush beneath your feet. Headstones stand uniformly in rows. The blue sky is cloudy and the sun attempts to peek through them.
You can spot her three rows away, kneeling with her head in her hands. You duck your head against the breeze and hug your jacket nearer to your body.
The day was actually sunny and warm, despite it being the middle of November. Birds cawed in the trees and the black casket shone in the sunlight.
Wind rustled the trees, drowning the sound of sobs into its abyss.
You stare at the trembling leaves, threatening to fall, and look down at your wife. She's clutching at the fabric of her wool jacket and you try to wrap your arm around her. Shaking you off, she steps closer to her nearby father and you sigh, running a hand through your shaggy hair.
It's been awhile since you've had the chance to get a haircut.
Walking down the row, you notice she's still in her pajamas and her nails are digging into the exposed skin of her arms. Tears are streaming down her cheeks and her mouth is moving quickly, muttering to herself. Gulping, you slowly saunter over to her.
You pull your jacket off, kneel next to her, and place it around her shoulders. She doesn't protest, instead hugs it to her in an attempt to rid herself of the cold. Her muttering stops and she looks at you.
It's the first time you find a new emotion in her eyes since last November.
"I really miss him, you know? It should've been me," she whispers, staring at her hands.
Shaking your head, you pull her towards you and you feel her sob into your shoulder. "Don't say that," you plead, holding her head to your shoulder with your left hand and rubbing her back with your right.
"He didn't deserve that," she cries, wrapping her arms around your waist. Your legs wobble beneath you and you try to sit without disturbing her. "He was only eleven!"
"I know, Rory. But you can't blame yourself for what happened. It's not your fault," you soothe, tears springing to your eyes.
"Why couldn't I just keep him from going to school that day?"
"You didn't know." She pulls back and you cup her face in your hands. Your thumbs rub the tears off her cheeks and she leans forward to rest her forehead against yours.
"I'm really sorry. For everything," your wife whispers and you nod.
"Forget about it."
………………
"Hey, Dad?" he calls hesitantly, walking into your office.
Lifting your eyes from the computer screen, you blink twice before focusing on the figure of your son in the doorway. "What's up?"
He fidgets with his hands as he walks up to your desk. "Uh, I kinda did something."
Raising your eyebrows, you find yourself intrigued and you ask, "What?"
"Do you promise not to be mad?" He's looking at you with watery eyes and you know this is going to call for some yells.
"What did you do that was so bad?"
"Follow me," he whispers, walking out of your office and forcing you to trail after him.
He takes you out the front door and you spot his worn-out baseball glove lying on the grass of the front lawn. Walking down the front steps, you feel a knot rise in your throat as you find the cracked window of your most recent car.
"Brett, what happened?" you say too calmly as he turns to face you.
"Jack and I were playing catch and I threw the ball over his head. I swear I didn't mean to do it, Dad!" You inhale deeply, letting your boiling blood simmer.
"I know you didn't." You pull your son towards you and ruffle his hair. He smiles at you and you summon his friend out of the bushes. "Jack! It's safe now."
"I'm sorry about this, Mr. Mariano. Really." Your son's best friend brushes the leaves off his shirt.
Turning to your son, you ask, "Why couldn't you hit your mother's car?"
…………………
It's the first time she's smiled at you in three months and you can't help but smirk in return.
Her leg is thrown over yours in a twist of limbs. Her bangs are matted to her forehead with sweat and you move over to press your lips against hers. She pulls your face into her hands and you roll her onto you.
Foreheads pressed together, you pull back to breathe a sigh of relief.
"What?" she whispers, kissing the side of your mouth. You run your hands down her exposed back and kiss her lips briefly.
"I just missed you." She's blushing now, and you push her bangs back.
"I'm really so—"
"—Shh," you hush, tucking strands of hair behind her ear. "Forget it. You're here now, okay?" Nodding, she exhales and rolls off you, tucking herself into your side. You pull the blanket over your bodies and kiss the top of her head.
"I—"
"—I know."
………………
(A/N): So, what did you think? The ending is completely different (and shorter) than I originally thought it would be, but I hope this is okay. Please review?