Summary: (Literati angst) AU. He takes a sip, then a gulp. Half the bottle is gone before he realizes it. Anything to drown out those beautiful, sparkling blue eyes that haunt him every minute of every day. Based on the Chris Cagle song of the same name.
Premise: Set two years after Jess left for California. He's now living in NYC, and has never been back to Stars Hollow.
Rating: T
Notes: Turned out slightly different than I imagined, but this idea has been rolling around in my head for a while now. Let me know what you think!
Disclaimer: I do not own Gilmore Girls, "Anywhere But Here," or The Fountainhead, as much as I would love to claim any of the three.
Anywhere But Here
Cold.
It's leaking in through the window, again. He hates the cold, hates New York. He hates everything.
Everything but her. He loves her.
Sometimes he thinks that's worse.
He lifts the bottle, again. The only thing that makes his life bearable at the moment.
He takes a sip, then a gulp. Half the bottle is gone before he realizes it. Anything to drown out those beautiful, sparkling blue eyes that haunt him every minute of every day.
He knows he shouldn't. He's already been down this road before. Those Twelve Steps were a bitch to finish, and he doesn't want to go through them again.
He reaches to the side and picks up a book, his ever present companion.
The Fountainhead. He still doesn't know what the hell it's about, still hates it.
But she loved it.
That right there should be enough to make him loathe the sight of it. And he does, sort of.
So why is his copy so worn that the front cover is nearly falling off? Why is he reading it again, for the third time this week?
Maybe he feels some sort of connection to her, through it. Maybe he thinks that if he finally grasps some illusive concept that made her adore it, then she'll know. They'll connect, in some way or other, and she'll know he understands.
Or maybe he's just losing his mind.
He flips it open to the dog-eared page and begins.
Before he's even finished the paragraph, there's a banging on the door.
An obscenity is muttered, and he stands up from his reclining position on the lumpy couch. He remembers her couch. She loved it, even though it was old and lumpy. His is worse, though. Hers didn't have a huge gash in the back or smell like cat pee.
But whatever.
He makes it to the door, opening it, not bothering to check first. If it is an insane axe murderer, then so be it. At least he would be out of his misery.
Instead, he finds Luke.
He thinks he'd prefer the axe murderer.
"Jess." The man in flannel and a backwards baseball cap walks in, not bothering to be invited.
"Uncle Luke. What a pleasant surprise." The sarcasm is overflowing, filling the dark room. It's night.
He has a job; he's not that much of a loser, sitting around and killing his liver, instead of making money. And he doesn't make a habit of drinking at night, either. He'd been clean a whole five months before tonight. Tonight had extreme circumstances that lead to it.
Tomorrow he would start over again.
"Jess, what the hell are you doing?"
Luke has never been one to beat around the bush.
Luke surveys the apartment in disgust, taking in the ancient couch, the even older television, and the roach traps in every corner. But Luke's not talking about his living situation, and he knows that.
"None of your business." The beer hasn't affected his tongue. At least, not yet.
"You were better." Luke states, staring at him, dead on.
"I am better."
"I can tell." Luke deadpans, gesturing to the half empty - not half full - bottle of beer, sitting on the TV tray next to the couch, and the empty ones beside it.
"I'm fine." He always is. He can handle it on his own.
"You're not."
"Just mind your own damn business!" He shouts, advancing toward Luke, who just stands there, unimpressed.
"You are my business, Jess." Luke's not fooled. "Now tell me what's going on. Is this the first time?"
"So what if it is?" He's defensive, he's always defensive.
"Is it?"
"Yes! You happy now? Go search through the damn dumpsters if you think I'm lying!"
"I believe you."
He's at a loss, now. Luke's not yelling, like he usually does.
"Jess..."
Instead, Luke's in an understanding mood, and he doesn't think he can deal with that.
"What?" He snaps.
"Why?"
He rolls his eyes and takes a deep breath, an inner debate clearly visible through tormented chocolate eyes.
"I was at the bookstore." He says, finally. "...And I saw this girl. The back of her. She just...her hair, and the way she stood..." He left off, not making eye contact with Luke. Ashamed, but not wanting to admit it.
"Reminded you of -"
"Don't!" His unexpected outburst startles both of them, the truth wide open for anyone to see. "Just...don't say her name." His voice is quieter, husky, almost desperate. His breathing is hitched.
"You know, you were the one to walk away, Jess."
He turns immediately to face Luke.
"You think I don't know that?! You think I don't beat myself up for it every second of every day?! God!" He swings around on the last ejaculation, making a wide, exaggerated gesture with his hands.
He heads for the tray, picks up the beer, and takes a long swig before setting it down again.
He turns back around to face Luke, who just stands, arms folded, watching. "What? No speech? Never thought this day would come." He sits down hard on the couch, leaning forward to switch on the television.
Luke follows him, sitting on the opposite end of the piece of furniture.
The hostility is still thick in the air, as they sit, seeing, but not watching, whatever show happens to be flickering across the screen.
"You know," Luke's voice is hesitant, as if he's not sure whether he should bring this up or not. "She still asks about you."
"Oh, really?" His tone is light, feigning disinterest.
"Jess."
"Just...don't." Neither's eyes have left the television at any point during the exchange, but his flick over for half a second at Luke, begging silently for it to be dropped. He's already in his own personal hell; he doesn't need any added torture.
"I'm just saying...she cares."
"Would you shut up, already!" He leaps up from the couch, running a hand through his hair as he paces back and forth a few times.
He takes a deep breath, plopping down on the couch again. "I'm sorry. I just..." He breaks off, unable to complete the sentence. "What do you tell her? You know, when she asks?" He has to know.
"I tell her you're doing fine. She knows you live in New York, knows you have a steady job."
"And that's it?"
"Yes."
"You didn't tell her...?" The question is left unspoken, but Luke knows what's being asked.
"No."
"Good. She doesn't need to know." His voice comes out a little harsh, but he's desperate. She can't know. It would break her heart, if she knew the truth. And he couldn't be the cause of her heartbreak. Not again.
They recline on the sofa a while longer, until Luke finally stands. "I'd better get going."
"Luke." The older man pauses, halfway to the door. "Here." He retrieves the two remaining beers from the lone six-pack, holding them out. Luke accepts them without a word and turns to leave, only to stop once again.
"You're a good kid, Jess. And I'm here for you."
"I'll remember that."
"Good." Then the door shuts, and Luke is gone.
He's alone in the apartment again.
He flips the television off, and in the silence, he thinks he can hear her laugh.
Or maybe it's just the wail of the police sirens.
The air is still cold; he really should fix that window. He moves over to it, shivering slightly as he looks down at the people, bundled in coats, heading in various directions along the sidewalk. Automatons, all of them appear to be. He wonders how many of them are secretly miserable.
He ambles back over to the sofa, his hand seeking the paperback he left there and finding it.
He flips to where he left off.
Maybe this time, he'll understand.
The End
Notes: I tried my best not to make this too OOC, please let me know if I succeeded!