Title: Excess is Ease
Rating: Mature
Date Written: 5-9-08
Disclaimer: I don't own Gilmore Girls. It all belongs to Amy Sherman-Palladino and the folks at the WB. Title of fic comes from a poem by Stan Rice of the same name.
Summary: She was wobbly on her heels, like a sliver of jell-o propped up on toothpicks. Jess's arm around her felt cool and oddly comforting against her bare shoulder blades.
A/N: Jess plays nurse while Rory feels ill. Just a little something. Lit Future. Reviews are always appreciated.
She was wobbly on her heels, like a sliver of jell-o propped up on toothpicks. Jess's arm around her felt cool and oddly comforting against her bare shoulder blades. Her head lolled onto his shoulder, weak and helpless, like a doll. Her face felt sticky and heated but she could feel goose bumps puckering her skin, indicating a chill.
It had been a long evening. Jess had insisted that they didn't have to go but she had wanted to be there. They'd both shown up at the release party for Jess's third novel: The Patience of Mirrors. He didn't know what kind of reviews it had received—he didn't know because he didn't read them—but there had been a subtle, reactive flow of response. People came up to him in the street, the grocery store, in coffee shops and bars. What they said to him wasn't always positive, but it was opinionated. He was loved or hated. Embraced or shunned. The Patience of Mirrors had given him the kind of cult following that reviews didn't—couldn't—spawn.
Rory gave a little cough into her hand while Jess rubbed her exposed back in a soothing manner. "We should have stayed home."
Her hair was pulled up off her neck; her earrings dangled low enough to almost brush her shoulders. "It was important. Really important. Jess, you don't just skip out on your own book release."
He slipped his arm around her waist, holding her securely. "I wasn't talking about me."
"I wanted to be there," she defended.
"You're sick," he countered.
He carried her into the elevator on the ground floor of their apartment building. Her dress was tight around her ribcage, pushing the upper swell of her breasts above her neckline. She liked to dress up for him. Whenever they went to art galleries or book signings or one of her mandatory dinner parties for the New York Post she'd trip around in pumps and stylish dresses. It had taken her years to acquire the kind of requisite grace necessary to maneuver in eveningwear.
She liked to wear the kind of clothes that she couldn't remove on her own. Before bed she would get Jess to help her with her zipper or a stubborn clasp on her jewelry. As a teenager she'd always felt gawky and awkward, the girl in gym class that was ashamed of her knobby knees and small chest. The older she got the more acclimated she became to her body and an outsiders impression of it.
Her arms where around his neck, she was surprised by the ease he displayed in carrying her. With the absence of shoes she was a good three inches shorter than Jess, but tonight her heels leveled them out to around the same height. Rory closed her eyes and allowed herself to be carried into their bedroom, like a child returning home from a long trip hours past their bedtime.
She made a pretty picture on the bed, sprawled like a girl's abandoned toy. Jess started a stream of water in the tub for her. She hated to go to bed without a shower, something that Jess had learned about her when they first moved in together. In the initial stages of their relationship it had been fascinating to discover each other's little quirks and abnormalities. She had been completely surprised to find that Jess didn't own a single pair of pajamas "Then what do you wear to bed?" "You know what I wear to bed." "But don't you wear something different when I'm not there?" "Now that I can't tell you." Or a reading light, she'd dug into him for that one. "How do you read books in bed?" "I turn on a lamp."
Rory blinked a few times. Her vision was blurry like the dusted clatter of a film-reel.
He leaned against the doorframe, his eyes on her, watching his wife fumble with her shoes and the pins in her hair. Her nightstand was always cluttered with stray earrings or little notes she'd write herself on bits of paper. She didn't scribble down household chores like "pick up dry cleaning" or "make appointment for the fifteenth." Her notes were detailed and particular, and they usually involved her work.
Her hair fell in unrepressed waves down her back; she knew he liked it down.
"What are you thinking?"
It was a question that she posed to him often. He never failed to answer.
"If you were feeling well I'd kiss you right now." He knew how to deliver a serious answer; he spoke the way he wrote.
She was shivering with cold. Her body kept switching from an intense heat to a biting chill. He helped her out of her dress and into the full bathtub; her naked body was a little shaky before the welcome touch of the water. She eased herself in slowly, her pink lips pressed together in a small line.
Pinching her nose, Rory submersed herself in the warm bathwater. She eased her eyes open while beneath the meniscus, looking up at a distorted view of her bathroom ceiling.
She came up sputtering. Her cheeks shone a peachy softness, young and firm like a clean baby. Jess sat beside her on the floor, his back against the scrubbed tiles.
--
He always felt guilty leaving her in the mornings. It was most likely after-shock from repeating the same action many years prior. He wrote her things to wake up to, just short little messages. It was unusual for them to exceed three or four words. When she woke up Rory saw that he had left her something stuck to the face of her alarm clock, a few words penned in his dark, script-like hand: Feel Better.
--
She kept a box of videotapes in the closet. All of her old favorites like The Man Who Cried, and Anne of Green Gables were stored on the third shelf next to some useless wedding present they'd gotten nearly two-and-a-half years ago. Rory liked to drag out her videos on sick days, her memory slipping back to the first time she'd seen the film and how old she'd been.
Rubbing her cheek with the sleeve of one of Jess's faded hoodies, Rory popped a few Tylenol for her head and curled up on the couch. She fell asleep with her bare legs tangled in the blankets while Daphne du Maurier's Rebecca played across the screen.
--
A timer sounded. She lifted her head off the couch with difficulty.
Muffled sounds of activity could be heard in the kitchen; the scrape of a bowl on the countertop, cabinets being opened and shut with caution as to the noise, the gentle trickle of water in the sink.
Rory combed her fingers through her hair to eliminate a few of the tangles, making herself look more presentable. She wandered into the kitchen, tugging at the thin cotton sleep-shorts she wore paired with Jess's sweater.
"I made you some soup."
The clock on the stove read six-fifteen. He'd probably just gotten home. The scent of chicken and rice with crushed black pepper had already diffused throughout the room. She hugged Jess around the waist, woozy, pressing her face into his ironed dress-shirt. "Thank you."
--
He resisted the urge to watch her too closely while she showered. The streaked glass of the stall was fogged with steam and moisture. Jess busied himself by brushing his teeth and washing his face in the sink. He caught the sight of Rory's naked, soapy calf through the glass. The mirror had clouded a little; he looked away.
She dried herself with one of their blue towels, patting the sensitive skin on her face and chest. She tried to drip on one of the mats instead of making a mess. The shock of cool air against her flushed skin made her shiver.
Rory towel-dried her hair and threw on one of her worn Yale T-shirts, crawling into bed next to her husband. Her head felt lighter but she was still tired. Her movements were like a drugged mannequin, strings entwined and out of order.
The comforter was pushed towards the foot of the bed. She settled into the crook of Jess's arm, inspecting his book.
"Stan Rice," Rory's eyes traveled over the black and white cover of Some Lamb. "I've never read him."
"Want to?" She nodded.
Rory had always told him that he had a good voice. She would occasionally ask if he would read to her, only every now and then, very seldom and always soft and mellow in the asking. Her eyelashes fluttered while he spoke, she was waning.
Bend down, bend down. Excess
is the only ease,
so bend. The sun is in the tree.
Put your mouth on mine. Bend down
beam and slash, for Dread is dreamed-up-scenes
of what comes after death. Is being
fled from what bends down in pain.
The elbow bends in the brain, lifts the cup.
The worst is yet to dream you up,
so bend down the intrigue
you dreamed. Flee the hayneedle in the brain's tree.
Excess allures by leaps. Stars burn clean. Oriole
bitches and gleams. Dread is the fear of being less
forever. So bend. Bend down and kiss
what you see.
--
Her back was warm. Yellow morning sunlight made patterns on the carpeted floor of the bedroom; Rory arched kitten-like beneath the covers, moaned, and turned to her other side.
The bed smelled sweet and a little musky, almost like a damp, swarthy warmth. Her skin felt clean against the bed linens, clean and untouched by fever. She raised a hand to her forehead and felt the smooth skin there: nothing.
Her T-shirt had been pushed above her waist during sleep. The soft cotton was bunched up beneath her breasts, leaving her flat little stomach exposed. She pressed herself closer to Jess, feeling the faint hint of arousal between his legs. The elastic of his underwear was twisted, turned low on his waist. With every expansion and contraction of her chest she breathed softly onto his skin.
Almost like a sleepwalker, Jess curved his arm around to skim her back. His brown eyes opened, slowly and sleepily. "Hey."
She gave a small yawn. "Good morning."
He traced her arm, fingers running over the supple curve. "You feeling ok?"
"Yes," she moved up a little so they were face to face. "Help me get this off."
She sat up a little while he removed her shirt. The sunlight made her bare chest look starkly pale next to her dark hair. He untangled himself from the bed things and leaned over to kiss her. She tasted like strawberry chap stick.
Rory knew that he liked to have sex in the mornings. It was usually better when they both weren't exhausted at the end of the day. She'd wake up and feel him against her leg or pressed into her stomach, his body warm and comforting next to her. Sometimes she would feel him up while he was still asleep, teasing until he shook off slumber.
When they had sex Rory liked to incorporate some sort of lighting. Most couples felt self-conscious when they didn't have any clothes or false pretenses to hide behind, but she liked it best when she could look down and clearly see their bodies moving. She found it erotic and incredibly sexy to watch what he was doing to her.
She leaned off his waist a little to remove his tented boxers. Giggling, she laced her fingers through his hands, delaying the removal of her light blue panties. She straddled him, leaning down to kiss him hotly on the mouth. Rory rocked him when she felt his lips travel from her neck to her breasts. He gently switched their positions, rolling on top of her and taking her nipple in his mouth. Jess leaned his weight on his left side, positioning himself away from her center, teasingly. His right hand stroked her thighs, working behind the little triangle of fabric that covered her downy pubic hair.
They went slowly, enjoying it, taking the time on an early Saturday morning to catch up.
She lay slumped against his chest; the scent of herself on the inside of her legs was strong, almost like a base. "Would you call that make up work?"
Pulling her into the curve of his body, Jess chuckled deep in his larynx. "I'd call that an A plus."
--
A/N: Just a little something Lit. Tried to keep it light. Please tell me what you think.