Embellishings
Disclaimer: Me? I own nothing. Whatsoever.
A/N: Written for the Literati Fanfiction Exchange. Obviously, this is not exactly how the show went…but it's pretty much self-explanatory.
To Sidney, who requested this (although I didn't know that)! And to Leigh, who gave me several ideas…and told me I could write this thing without knowing what it was.
>>>
Her glove is frozen to the bench. She panics. We're going to get caught. We're going to get caught.
He shuts her up. "We aren't going to get caught."
"We are. Jess, we are! This was stupid. This was a stupid idea. I cannot believe I'm here."
He leans down, easing her hand out of her stuck glove. "I'm freezing," she complains.
"Suck it up," he tells her easily.
"What are you gonna do if I get frostbite?"
"You won't."
"What if I do?" She pulls her jacket sleeve over her hand. Her skin is white against rough bricks and silver paint, a ghost in the darkness. "You know, there are no doctors involved here. We're at a crime scene. We can't volunteer the fingerprints."
He pushes her lightly against the wall, kissing her softly. He moves back about an inch and stands there, looking straight into her eyes. She melts, but she pretends she's still frozen. "H-How the hell did I get out here, anyway?" she says, trying to act casual. He's determined to break her shell.
And part one of the plan didn't do it.
"Come with me," he says. She follows him, bending her head to the ground in embarrassment. She wanted to let go. He expected her to, she knows it.
But goddamn, she can't give in that fast. She'll lose everything if she does.
"Jess, I'm standing outside Chuck Presby's house and I'm holding a can of silver spray paint and the smell makes me feel sick and you're standing there laughing!"
"I'm not laughing."
She mutters something. He's right; he's not. She doesn't feel like correcting herself. It's dark. It's nighttime! It's night and she is out with Jess. It's dark, at night, and she is out with Jess. It's dark, at night, and she is out with Jess and no one knows where either of them are. They're doing something random. She went along with his stupid idea. They're walking along a delicate path, testing the waters, wondering if this sort of thing will (ever) be possible again.
We're not together! she thinks. She tries to rationalize it: I'm not with anyone. It doesn't make it okay (but nothing does. To hell with morals, then).
He spray-painted the side of a house and she's laughing. She can't get enough of this, the cold air, the utter exhilaration. She has badly missed Connecticut winters. Even living here, Stars Hollow, she doesn't get enough. She doesn't get to breathe the air, she doesn't get to live the life. (She never gets to take any chances; it's so much better to be cautious.) A walk in the first snow just doesn't cut it. Never has, never will.
"Come with me," he tells her again. They need to get out of here.
"Why?" she wants to know. Why should I come with you? What's any good about feeling like you're going to fall?
All the time, too. All the fucking time. He makes promises and breaks them. He never tells the whole truth. She never knows what to believe.
She doesn't know what the hell is meant to be. She doesn't know what in the world she's doing. She can't figure out why she listened to him. 'Try it out.' Yeah, right. Whatever. She cannot figure out what he wants or why he wants it.
Her glove is frozen to the ground. She has scratched silver spray paint on the back of her coat.
He kisses her again. She starts to turn her head but changes her mind and returns his kiss. Okay. You win. I'll try, I will, she thinks.
He's taken aback and more relieved than he'd like to show her, until she shoves the ice down the collar of his shirt. A beeping noise sounds in his head, relatively Star Trek-esque. A computer is hiding in the back of his mind, telling him painful truths, loudly, before he can shove them beneath the surface.
Just. Eep. Friends. Eep. Stop. Trying. This. Eep, it says now, in its computer monotone.
"Wha—"
"Jess!" She pulls discreetly on his sleeve. "They're going to wake up."
"Right."
"Jess."
He won't leave. She looks at him seriously, scolding with her eyes, and then breaks into laughter, face flushed and ice in her hair, sinking down to lean against the wall. He stands beside her, trying not to look amused, brushing the snow off his shirt onto her.
"Calm down," he tells her.
"No."
"Rory, calm down." She's going crazy.
"I can't."
"Rory." He sits beside her and kisses her, hard and long and sweet. She just stares at him. "Get up." She does. "I'm freezing."
"My fault," she giggles.
"All your fault."
>
There are oranges in her hair.
He thinks it reminds him of honey, biscuits burning in an oven. Fruit fills his nostrils and his mind. He's overwhelmed by this almost sickening sweetness; leans back, breathes in.
It's calmer now, just the slightest scent of citrus, and Rory, sitting curled up on his lap. His hands are clasped at the small of her back, gently and surely. He wonders if she'll notice when he lets go. He bets she will. She won't mention it, though.
Flash of blue. Her eyes open.
"Jess?"
He nods.
She sits up, realizing where she is. Again, she turns bright red. "I'm sorry. I… Never…never mind."
He doesn't think of the right thing to say until she's brushed her hair and is gone and is probably in her Lit class. He makes coffee even though he hates it and he burns the side of his wrist on the stove.
"Shit."
The message machine blinks and the noise turns staticky. "Jess?" it says. "Are you there? I know you're not there, or you're not going to pick up… I'm sorry for staying…for staying last night. I know you had plans. And, I just, it's my fault. It is, because…I didn't mean to. I just…thanks for waking me up on time. I'm sorry. I'll see you," she finishes, hurriedly, hanging up and cutting herself off.
"Shit," he repeats, with more feeling this time.
He smells the oranges still. She leaves this irreversible something in his apartment every time she enters; the longer she stays, the longer it's engraved into his mind. Sometimes there is the false impression that it recedes too quickly and is almost missed. Sometimes he notices it, clearly and strongly, and it doesn't even throw him off.
>
"Come on, Rory, get up."
She stands and looks around her, the paint, the footprints in snow, the soaked back of Jess' jacket, her pale hand sticking out of her sleeve, and the panic comes back. "What are we doing?" she says, trying to be calm. He eyes her face and can tell she's serious.
"Let's get out of here," he suggests.
"What did I just do?"
"Nothing," he says truthfully. She looks incredulous. "I did this. You were nothing but the peanut gallery."
"Jess," she says reproachfully. She's hurt. How dare he do this to her, dare he take her on a ride like this. It's not her. Was she expected to believe him? This isn't going to be okay. They're separate people; they don't even have "trying not to be caught making out" as an excuse. We're going to get in trouble, she thinks over and over. She knows it isn't honestly what's bothering her, but what is, what is…
No, she's not going there.
She doesn't want this, this idea he suggested, and it will never, ever happen.
She feels herself flush and curl into her coat; a tortoise washed up on a sandy beach, a roly-poly beetle in a field. He is the predator: the kitten who walks up to the bug and opens its mouth threateningly, bats the bug around with its paw, and turns itself in the other direction, tail in the air.
"I just compared you to a cat," she says abruptly.
Goddamnit. That wasn't supposed to happen.
"Really."
"Yes, really."
She stares at him, trying to rise disconcert in his eyes; she's unsuccessful. "So. What kind of cat am I?" he says easily. She bores holes in the ground with her glare and kicks fluffy white snow in his face. It slips into her boot; she grimaces as the water melts into her sock.
"Cheshire," she tells him defiantly. "I can see the smile now."
He reaches down and picks up a handful of snow, thoughtfully packing it into a sphere. He appears to be thinking of something else entirely; she goes along with it. She's thinking of going to sleep, of pillows and comfortable sheets, when sudden ice explodes in her face. She stifles a shriek and flies at Jess. "Oh my god!" she yells.
"Shhh," he teases her.
She tackles him into a snow pile and rolls over to stare at the stars. He coughs, wind knocked out of him, and she's giggling almost too hard to apologize. It's fifteen minutes later when she notices his arm is around her shoulders, and when she does realize it she's too far gone to inch away. She doesn't remember walking home the next morning, but she gets there. It's apparent when she awakens that no one knows anything, least of all Lorelai. Jess pretends he remembers nothing. She gets irritated, but she can't say so.
>
She's peeling and eating one now, and the smells of her lunch and her soap are permeating his life. Orange peel's scattered across his tiny kitchen table. Her knee is slung over the arm of his chair; she's leaning the one she is sitting in precariously against the wall. It's scratching the paint and leaving dents in the carpet, but hey, he doesn't own this place. She looks happy and perfectly at home in his (temporary) apartment, but as soon as the light stops shining in the window, he knows she'll get nervous and awkward and will edge her way out.
He doesn't know that this is only because she doesn't want to leave. She doesn't think he needs to know this.
She yawns. "I should go."
"Maybe."
"Maybe not." She leans back further. "Do you mind?"
"Nah." He sounds casual about it. She twitches in her seat, watching his reactions. He doesn't give her any satisfaction, no hints. His face is a wall, his posture even blanker to her scrutiny.
"You're impossible," she tells him.
"Am I."
"Yep." She sighs. "Jess…"
The sun is sinking below the window's rim. He keeps the lights off to save the electric bills; she always jumps and blinks when she returns to her dorm, adjusted to the dim lighting of Jess' place. A shadow makes its way down her face, down her arm. He watches the light slide down her skin in idle amusement, pretending to be staring into space.
"Jess what?" he finally asks her.
"Nothing," she mutters.
>
He's too close, but he is speaking to her. She can't move away. The whole diner will see.
Worse, he will see, and he will misinterpret what she wants.
"You get inside okay?" he asks her. She detects some hint of sarcasm, but she doesn't know how to reply.
I wanted you to stay, she thinks, trying to project her thoughts to him. They reflect off the glassy wall and rebound on her, more intensely: I wanted you to stay, to stay, to stay, why didn't you stay.
I didn't want to think all the things I did, she thinks. You should have asked me, asked me if I wanted to come with you when I was awake.
He sees nothing in her eyes, or at least he pretends this.
"I was soaking wet!" she accuses. He smirks; she tries to smile back. It no longer feels right, talking to him. He took her out on a limb, and she will look back on it happily, but she didn't enjoy it out there. It's uncomfortable, not knowing where the hell they are, because it sure as heck is not a normal relationship they have. ('Relationship.' Can they use that word?) What is she, his paint carrier? His anger management, the person who makes him laugh?
It's simple.
She shouldn't have been there, and he shouldn't have asked her. They know each other so well. They're the kind of people who will be friends for the rest of their lives, until one of them makes a huge mistake.
She isn't a good kisser, and he knows more than she can deal with right now, about living. Friendship, though, friendship they can handle.
"Let's forget last night," she says abruptly.
He agrees too quickly. She thinks she said or did something wrong, but she can't figure out what.
"Deal," he tells her.
"You're honestly standing there telling me you watched me put graffiti on Chuck Presby's house and no one ever found out."
She nods and shrugs innocently. "He said he did it."
"Why…"
"I don't remember at the moment," she admits. "There was a reason. It wasn't that much we did, either…just enough to know we'd done something. One of those impulsive things you've always made me do, lately."
It's the trial period. Is This Going to Work? They wonder. There are doubts already. They want to clarify this whole escapade now, so they can keep their promise: they will never again talk about this.
It won't work, it can't.
They are an example of Not Meant to Be.
"And he…"
"He inherited most of his genes from his parents," she says, grinning wickedly.
She's reveling in recent memories she shouldn't even be thinking of as cheerful, and he feels the pain hovering between them along with all the unsaid words. They hurt more all the time, and they're awfully heavy for him to keep holding there. There's nothing between them anymore. Nothing real. Nothing! They fake it. They fake it all.
He decides not to ask; tilts his head and just looks at her. He stares her down. She twitches under his gaze; she's frightened. They've come so far, and she's still scared of him, and he's utterly oblivious or a fucking good actor. "Why did you come with me, then?"
She blushes, without realizing she is.
>
"I have to go," she says, straightening her back and moaning. "Owww. Remind me not to sit that way again."
"Done," he answers, amused. "You wanna stay?"
"What?"
"You heard me."
"Jess, we were never…"
He moves to stand between her and the door. "We were never what, Rory?"
"Never…" She drops her hands to her sides, helplessly. He stares, egging her on. "You don't want to be with me. You never have. You kissed me only to make sure."
She said it.
She waits.
"You're right," he says, very slowly. "I don't. I don't want to be with you at all."
She turns pale, slowly, surely, gazing right into his eyes. "I knew it," she says weakly. It's a lie. She remembers the feel of his lips on hers, the way he lifted her hand and pulled it out of her glove, the way he used to smile at her when she wasn't looking.
"Did we ever talk about it again?"
"What?" she challenges him.
He nods at her.
"I don't love you," he tells her. "I don't care." She stands there and takes it. "You didn't have to listen to me."
She knows what he means. That night, long ago, the last one, the only one. The eternal question: why not? They were trying it out. Being together when others didn't want them to—what would it be like? Being more than what they were, rebelling ever so slightly—sneaking out for no reason for the sake of sneaking out, being with each other just because. The guilt won her; the honesty hurt him, and she thought it was all lies after all.
She gave up. He followed suit, but only as far as she could see.
A relationship was not something they should ever have tried. Not for five minutes, not for one day. It was never worth it.
(They based everything on just the one night!)
Friends, best friends, they are, until someone makes a huge mistake.
They based everything on breaking the law, one fucking night of breaking the law and no one noticing. They made it up to be a huge thing in both their minds: paint all over brick, while in reality it was a tiny streak, and a snowball fight, and a good memory turned painful because of its result. Friends, friends who suddenly looked at each other differently, whose hands tingled when they touched each other, who began to feel like staying out late, together, was the worst thing they could do and they did it anyway. What do you know; it didn't bring them together that way. Damn, what a surprise that was.
She kisses him, hard. It's not sweet, and it's over quickly. "I don't love you," she says. "Not at all. I never did."
She smiles into his mouth; she can't restrain herself. He can taste the lies.
"Tell me why," he suggests.
She sits back in her previous position and smiles.
"How I remember it? It's a long story…"