Lipstick Tourniquets, a gilmore girls fanfic

This piece was written as part of the lit ficathon on livejournal. I'm filling the request for Meredith-Grey. The story was to include: Red lipstick, sunglasses, a ring of any kind, and Vincent Van Gogh. The second and third sections circle around events from the show, but the rest is post-series. The mature rating is for a mild run in with sexual situations.

Many thanks extend to DiehardJavaJunkie14 for the beta and for putting up with my constant apprehension.

Disclaimer: I'm merely playing in someone else's sandbox. Gilmore Girls belongs to its rightful owners, as do the lyrics from "Dark Desire" to The Agony Scene.

kissed with broken glass
the softest touch will penetrate
and steal my breath
I close my eyes and suffocate

Desire. It was an emotion best approached with caution and ingenuity. He had learned it was best to keep his head on straight when dealing with human emotions. At one point in his life, he had persuaded himself that he felt nothing - not even a tinge of regret. Lying had always been his forte, and he was not convinced of the unmitigated lament that stabbed at his entire body while he slept.

When he approached her, his chest heaved in an uncontested manner. He wasn't used to any emotion plaguing him. Wasn't he not supposed to feel? But her cherry red lipstick emphasized her smooth, ruddy complexion. He wanted to reach out and touch her, feel her between his legs, sync his breath with hers. Focusing only on her, he stepped closer, the bridge creaking, the water flowing. She peered up at him, tears caked against her cheeks, red lipstick smeared in the corners of her mouth.

He felt as if he had just walked into a Van Gogh painting - cold and uninviting. The colors of night subdued the scene as he inched closer. The expression in her eyes was reckless. Kiss me, it dared. He wanted to kiss her until every bit of that lipstick was washed away from her tender pout. Restraining himself, he took a step back. He was shrouded from the picture, like heavy sunglasses were covering his eyes. All he could do was stare through the thick lenses, at her, at her lipstick, and at the water.

She no longer had a companion, and he was trying to exercise self-restraint. After he walked off the bridge, he knew what he had to do. He was going to break one heart, but bring another into warmth and compassion. If successful, perhaps he could openly emote rather than bury his senses in dirt.

He wanted to kiss her until he died. She had someone waiting for her at home. It was enough to make his insides bloat and press against his ribcage. Years ago, he had given up on her pristine beauty. She was no longer his, and what they had was no longer real. Watching her walk out of the bookstore, he covered his mouth with his hands. He buried his remorse deeper in his chest and exhaled.

Inhale, exhale, and he was composed.

The darkness collapsed under her eyes in rings and circles. She was tired of running, tired of failing. He was tired of yearning for her, an unreciprocated yearning that left him hard and empty through the years. Cautiously, he asked what she was doing. She was standing on his doorstep, red lipstick flaking off between her teeth as she gnawed on her lips. Per usual, she turned on her heel and fled the scene. She didn't know what she was doing there. What was she doing there?

Part of him wanted to ignore their history and dash after her, scoop her up, and finalize a happy ending. But he had grown precarious and tart with age. His desire had yet to fade, but his means and motivation were long gone - just as she was.

She appeared to him three days later to solidify his ache for her warmth. No sooner had he opened his door when the tingle at the base of her neck told her to run. Her shiny heels were suctioned against his forest green carpet. It was untainted desire that settled at her feet. The red lipstick was gone from her lips, the little reminder of who she was, who she used to be, and who she would no longer be.

He hated kissing her sticky mouth covered in red gunk. Pretty to look at, but not much use past that reason. Perhaps she had come to him with good intentions.

She fought the urge to talk, to chatter, as she pulled at his waistband. They had pushed aside the simple art of conversing and he rubbed his tongue across her smooth lips. He was no longer shrouded in mist, and she was no longer running. Their breath ran in parallel lines, smooth, even, and together. Clenching his jaw, he entered her throbbing heat effortlessly. She clung to him like a child, the child she had hidden too early in life.

He thrust against her, rigid emotions flowing from his tense planes of muscle. Had she protested, he would have ceased his rigor. She said nothing, and he continued, breaking down the understated boundaries that formed between them.

His heart lurched when he awoke, her clothes gone, her shoes gone. She was gone. Part of him expected her to leave, cloaking in the anonymous abyss of the night air. The greater portion of him accepted her departure with a nod at the clock. That was what she did, after all. She left, left him, left her life, left them. Chucked them aside as if they meant nothing to her. She had hardened with age as well, and that was the only thing he had a difficult time accepting.

The faint scratch at his door pulled him from a deep slumber. Dragging himself from the sheets, he shuffled barefoot to the front door. He paused at the doorknob, his fingers resting on the shiny chrome. The peephole showed him that the red lipstick was back, and "We should talk" grazed her gentle mouth.

He found remorse settling in his chest as his calloused hand left the doorknob. Shaking his head, he exited the foyer, fear and regret burrowing in his heart as he departed.

Sharp and steady, the bang of knuckles infiltrated his entire residence. Tossing aside his paperback, he made his way to the door. He had played that game and danced that dance, but the perpetrator would always return for another round. He hadn't expected her back after the last incident. She left him in bed, but he left her on the doorstep.

Any semblance of normality that had wedged its way back was gone immediately. They both knew why she was there. It was the same song and dance that left them empty by days end.

Ignorance was stripped off layer by layer just as their clothes were. Neither felt dirty or used anymore. They were accustomed to the relationship they held, if it could even be referred to as a relationship.

But something hit her as he continued to grind his hips against hers. No matter how she tried to argue her point, it was clear she wasn't quite as detached as she thought. Running could only quell the craving for his body and mind for so long. She found, in the long haul, that his mind was really what she wanted. His body, on the other hand, was what she often accepted.

When he rolled over the next morning, he was met with warm flesh and soft curves curled next to him. At first, he had to rub his eyes to check if he was hallucinating. She must have been an illusion, a figment of his imagination. He wanted – needed – her to be real. Leaning over, he brushed his thumb over her smooth shoulder. When she quivered gently under his touch, he retracted his hand. She had stayed. Why did she stay? She never stayed. Possible situations ricocheted in his skull as he sat up in bed, dragging the sheets with him.

Shivering, she yanked on the loose corner of the sheet. He felt her pull on the fabric and glanced down at her sleeping form. He was never granted the opportunity to see her asleep. Before he could rise in the mornings, she was gone. It was the first time they were in the same bed at breakfast time.

He had to strangest urge to force her to wake up alone, just as he had so many mornings before. It didn't matter that it was his house; he wanted to throw his clothes on, leave, and never come back.

She nursed her mug of coffee, wearing one of his button downs that hit the top of her thigh. Looking away from his own coffee, he noticed her drumming on the kitchen table with her fingers. Quickly, he glanced back at the wall and continued to sit on the counter top.

Honestly, he wasn't sure what to say. After seven years of chasing this girl, this woman, he could barely part his lips to mutter a word. The retching ache present in his gut was credited to her. He wanted her to leave, but at the same time wanted her to stay.

It had been nine days since she appeared on his doorstep again. Smiling, he felt her breath on his chest like every night since. He wanted to wake her, kiss her, love her, but he was satisfied studying her beauty. Her brow no longer creased in frustration when she was around him. He thought they could swing a stable relationship for the first time in years - a relationship without pain and lonely mornings. Satisfied with the musing, he leaned over and kissed her lips scrubbed clean of color. Eyes perking, she slid a hand up his waist.

At first, he had doubted her. After all, she was the first person that caused him to feel anything and everything at the same time. His bloodstream concocted a cocktail of emotions whenever they were in the same room together. For the first time in years, he was calm and collected. As she stroked his bare skin, he slid against her heat. His door was always open; she just chose to shut it behind her too often.

She was no longer untouchable, no longer out of reach. He didn't need to lie to himself, or convince himself that he was happy. He felt light, airy. And he felt. In more than one way, he felt her.

For once in his life, he was wayward with his emotions. He let them spill over, feral and unrestrained. He didn't mind that desire nipped at his ankles and dragged him under the surface. He was where he needed to be, wanted to be, had to be. It had taken longer than he hoped, but he was there.

More importantly, she was there with him. In the end, she was all that mattered.