A/N: Written for the Literati Fic Exchange. I was asked to include: a body in an elevator, emphasis on dialogue, a conservation between Jess and Lorelai of some sort, and a guitar.
Not to include: fluff, coffee mentions, Stars Hollow, Luke/Lorelai together.
Disclaimer: I do not own Gilmore Girls, Casablanca, or A Farewell to Arms.
Half the Horizon is Gone
He's used to seeing her. In the only bookstore in Venice that caters to locals instead of tourists, and therefore stocks more than Tom Clancy and Sophie Kinsella. In a New York restaurant that makes unbelievable tiramisu. In his nightmares, when all she says is "No", the words growing quieter until he thinks it's impossible to broken by such soft words, and then he wakes up; feeling like an old, forgotten puzzle, missing some integral pieces.
The nightmares of her don't come often, and they're becoming even less frequent as more years pass without contact between them. "Time heals all wounds." He smirks at himself; now that he thinks in the clichés he used to despise, all he needs is a guitar and he's on his way to fame in Nashville. It would definitely pay more than his poor excuse for an occupation right now.
X X X
He's a dark shape, sitting on the bridge, the only gleam of light coming from his obligatory cigarette. As she walks up to him, he gives no sign of having heard her but isn't startled when she sits down, inches away from him. It figures; nothing she does seems to surprise him. Already, he knows her too well.
She takes a deep breath, and looking straight at the water, recites:
''The world breaks every one and afterward many are strong at the broken places. But those that will not break it kills. It kills the very good and the very gentle and the very brave impartially. If you are none of these you can be sure it will kill you too but there will be no special hurry'."
He experiences a pang, sharp and deep, as he looks at her. The words seem foreign coming from her mouth and he wonders if she maybe fits into one of the damned categories.
"You gave the painful Hemingway another chance?"
"I'm a woman of my word."
"And?" He gives no sign of real interest.
"I didn't fall asleep as quickly this time."
"You liked it." It's not a question.
She's not going to give in that easily. "It was hard going, but I hate leaving books unfinished."
"Huh." He is struggling to keep his smirk from blooming into a full blown grin, and is silently grateful there is only the silver light of a new moon tonight.
"You're just lucky I'm honest."
"Ah, but are you fair?"
Her voice takes on a light, bantering quality. "Why, good sir, what are you implying? Other than that you had absolutely no need for a tutor if you're paraphrasing Shakespeare?"
His hand is on her thigh, radiating warmth. He turns toward her, and she imagines she can see two tiny mirror images of herself in his eyes. She inches towards him, and brushes her lips with his, surprising herself with her spontaneity. He deepens the kiss, placing one hand on either side of her face.
It's moments like these when the future of their new relationship rolls out in her mind's eye: full of promise and excitement, with no end in sight.
"It's nice that with you, I don't feel like I should be mutating into some giraffe-human hybrid." Immediately, she wishes to swallow her words; Jess doesn't want to hear about her past with Dean.
He doesn't respond right away, and she winces inwardly, cursing the foot-in-mouth gene she inherited from Lorelai. Of all the topics for small talk, she would choose this!
"Good to know I make you feel completely human." His voice breaks her anxious silence, and she lets out her breath in a rush, giddy with relief. He's not mad.
"Jess?"
"Yeah?"
"I liked it." Her words have a bell like clarity, and it's all he can do to remain outwardly stoic.
He pulls her closer, and on this crisp, starry night, he thinks it's quite possible that the feeling coursing through his veins is happiness.
XXX
It's early. So early that the apartment building is deserted and she shivers, unnerved by the silence. She had wanted to check out a lead for her article so that she could begin writing it the next day. Too late, she regrets her get-up-and-go mentality. She hears a noise and jumps about three feet in the air. Scolding herself for shying away from shadows, she presses the buzzer and announces herself.
"Hello?"
"Hi, Mrs. Morgan. My name is Rory Gilmore. I spoke to you over the phone, regarding an interview."
"Oh yes. I'm on the fourth floor, room on up."
The elevator doors slide open, and she steps in –
"Oh my God!" A dark haired man lies crumpled on the floor.
She asks, "Are you ok?" and immediately realizes how stupid the question is. People who are okay do not lie face down in a public elevator. Receiving no answer, she moves closer and cannot feel the man's breath on her cheek. Frantic, she searches for a pulse, pushing up the sleeve of his leather jacket. It's faint, but it's there.
The thought registers that she should call 9-1-1, and she takes out her cell phone, fingers shaking.
"911 Operator speaking."
"Hello? I was going up the elevator for an interview and I stepped on and saw this man sprawled across the floor. He's unconscious and has a weak pulse."
"Alright. Where are you?"
"An apartment building on 130 Street and 51 Ave. I'm on the first floor."
"Are there signs of any external wounds?"
Carefully, she makes a circle around the man, looking for signs of blood. "No, no, I don't see anything. I think he might have had a heart attack or something. "
"Ok. An ambulance should be there in less than ten minutes. Do you want me to stay on the line until it arrives?"
Rory demurs, and after saying thank you, hangs up the phone. She stares blankly at the man, taking in his brown, curly hair. The thought flashes through her mind: please don't let it be Jess.
Gingerly, she turns the man's face so she can see his profile. The man's face is ashen, and her knees buckle, sending her to the ground. She doesn't know this man. The overpowering sense of relief she feels surprises her. She hasn't seen Jess in a very long time, which has allowed her to shove all her memories of him (them, together) into a corner of her subconscious that she's rarely brave enough to delve into. She thinks of the last time she saw him and his crazy proposition. He knew she couldn't go with him! Now, though, all remnants of anger have disappeared, and only the bitter taste of regret keeps her company. He was the only person she could talk seriously with about literature, talks in which they would both represent their way of thinking so earnestly (until, of course, he would kiss her, and then even books were forgotten.) She's never been as comfortable with anyone since.
This man she hovers over has, without saying a word, made her think more about Jess than she has for years. The guilt she tastes in her mouth is sour and old, threatening to drown her in its sea of should-haves and could-haves, and she wants so badly to tell him she's sorry. Maybe apologizing to Jess would be the tonic she needs to help her finally forget.
Sighing, she shakes her head. It's much too late for her introspection to do either of them any good. She's sure he has forgotten her by now, and (if she's going to be honest) she's afraid of meeting his impersonal stare.
She looks at the unknown man, wondering if he has a significant other, someone who counts on him, a dog. He is young, probably in his mid twenties, with dreams and goals of his own. Maybe he has a family that depends on him. Maybe he just got the promotion he worked so hard for.
A single tear trickles down her cheek. She's not sure who it's for.
XXX
People are assholes, he decides. That is the one constant in his life, more certain even than periodic calls from Luke and taxes. He sincerely hopes that one day his luck will change, and he'll win the state lottery so that he'll never have to put up with idiots again.
He climbs into bed and closes his eyes, waiting for waves of darkness to claim him, hoping for a dreamless night.
He is sitting at the bar, asking for another drink. It's only his second, he reassures anyone who cares (not him, not anyone), and it takes a lot of liquor to get him drunk. That is his greatest achievement, he laughs bitterly: a high alcohol tolerance.
"Jess?" His name is a question, coming from a familiar voice, and he looks up. Dark hair, cerulean blue eyes. What the hell is she doing here?
"Lorelai."
"What are you doing here?"
"I was trying to read." He shows her the book, Fight Club. She's seen him, she said hi, she can tell Luke he's fine…now can she go?
Never one to take a hint, Lorelai sits down on the stool beside him. "I'd like a Smirnoff, please", she tells the bartender. With a wink at Jess, the man gives her the drink.
Giving up on being alone – what is in the Gilmore blood that makes them so persistent? – he turns to Lorelai: "Well, Mrs. Robinson, why are you here?"
"Mrs. Robinson?"
"The bartender seems to think you and I are together." He smirks at the idea. Personally, he'd rather be flayed.
Her mouth drops open, he truly shocked her. "You and me? Together? Yes, thank you for giving me my own inner circle of hell moment."
"And thank you for that little self esteem boost."
"I live to serve." She's bounced back quickly, and is no longer slackjawed with horror.
An awkward silence descends; they haven't spoken since Liz's wedding to T.J. –miracle of miracles, that marriage hasn't ended – and he wonders if Rory told her that he came to see her that night. He is fairly certain she did. After all, Rory tells Lorelai almost everything.
Lorelai is unable to keep quiet and asks, "How's everything going, Jess?"
He is surprised at her tone. There is no longer the veiled hatred in her voice, she actually sounds as if she wants to know how he is. In turn, he longer addresses her with contempt: "It's fine. I have a job, I have an apartment."
"Great. So..uh..do you have a girlfriend?" That's Lorelai, ever subtle.
"Yeah, I do. What about you?"
She smiles and he thinks he sees relief in her eyes. "Still single. Not looking. There's no need to find me some sort of pity date, my mother and Miss Patty have that covered."
He laughs and lapses into silence, staring at the bar's surroundings. It's not seedy, but it's definitely not well known and he wonders how Lorelai stumbled across the place. They sip their drinks, comfortable with one another for the first time he can remember. There is no longer the shadow of Rory looming over every conversation; Lorelai is no longer afraid that he will take her daughter away from her, and only return her broken hearted, or worse, unrecognizable. It's happened already, and they've both moved on.
"Jess, I have something to say to you, and I'm only going to say it once. So listen up."
"I'm waiting with bated breath." Despite the sarcasm, he's genuinely interested.
"I'm sorry."
"Come again?" He could have sworn he heard Lorelai apologize to him. Maybe he's more inebriated than he thought.
"Didn't I specifically say that I would not repeat anything?"
"There must be something wrong with my ears. I thought I heard you apologize to me."
"Funny. I said I was sorry about the way I treated you when you were friends with Rory, and then when you were dating Rory, and then when you left Rory. She told me you were a good kid, and I should have listened to her."
"Huh." A kaleidoscope of thoughts swirls through his brain: Rory's face when he told her he loved her, his fight with Dean at that guy's party, the night of Rory's accident. He must be dreaming: Lorelai never admits that she was wrong. It's not in the Gilmore genes.
"So…we'll never mention this again, right?"
"Yeah."
Lorelai grins and sticks out her hand. Lowering her voice in an attempt to sound masculine, she says: "Louis, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship."
His eyes open, and he blinks rapidly in the bright sunlight. He's in his bed, not on a bar stool. It was just a dream. Weird, though. Especially that last bit where Lorelai quoted Casablanca. He shakes his head, and gets out of bed. Dreams don't mean anything, he thinks.