A/N: For some reason tonight my hands are working on their own accord. I will try to slow them down.
Disclaimer: You can sue me, but I don't think you'll get much from it.
He wraps his arm around her. She is shivering. It is cold. He doesn't like to see her cold; he doesn't like to see her hurt. He hates that, half the time, it is him that hurts her.
She whispers his name and he holds her closer, taking in her scent and the softness of her hair, knowing that these things are insignificant but taking pleasure in them anyway. He thinks that he needs a direction, but he thinks that he might veer of course. If he sees her, he will go off course.
He remembers a time when he was scared at what he might say; what he might admit. He thinks that he was stupid then (he is stupid now, but not as much). He used to be afraid of needing an apology, because he didn't want to have to say I'm sorry, because he didn't want to have to disappoint her. She thinks that he could never disappoint her. He is her hero, and he knows this. He will never admit that he wouldn't have it any other way.
She takes a breath, he imagines that his life depends on those breaths, those tiny bursts of life that remind him that she is there, she is real, she is not in his imagination. This was all he wanted, to be able to be here with her. He smoothes her hair, enjoying the feel of it on his own rough hands (that she says she likes).
He remembers being seventeen and stupid, being careless with his words but not his love, he thinks that he was never careless with his love. It was always meant for her. He was always in her hands. She had the choice to pick him, and that is what makes it so great. She had a choice, and still it was him. He had no choice. It was always her.
These are the times where he imagines that he is flying, but not away. In contrast, he is flying closer and closer all the time, trying to navigate her own terrain, trying to creep around without waking her up. Trying to learn because he could never do that in high school but he is not in high school and neither is she and that is the way they like it.
He cooks her breakfast before she can ask and she smiles because that is what he wants her to do and because she is happy. And Lorelai doesn't complain because she can see that he loves her (he always has). And when she comes to visit she smiles, too, and he thinks that maybe she isn't that bad, after all.
His mind spins with images and thoughts and he thinks that they will never get any closer to heaven. She is his angel, and he is her saint (although they could never be either. Even her—although her mother states otherwise), and they go together to a place where they can be alone, together, because the only company they need is each other.
It is not bitter, even though the taste in his mouth used to be, even though it took this long to get here, it is not bitter. It is sweet, like sugar, like blueberries (like her eyes), like chocolate (like his).
These are the times when he thinks maybe everything will be all right.