Disclaimer: You know I own nothing. (I hope you do.)
A/N: The line "I'm a total spaz" is from the season 1 episode "Kiss and Tell." Aside from that, (well, just totally other than that, lol) this should become clear as you read. Any questions you really do want answered, feel free to email...((shrug)) Heh. =)
Huge thanks to Elise, for 1) being a great beta and person, and 2) ((points to all her updates)). To Hadar, Sidney, and Mandy, because I miss them.
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"Rory? Rory, honey?" the voice calls from the front porch.
"It's Babette," she tells him weakly, and she knows he will pretend not to hear. She wonders for a quick moment whether he likes to see her flustered. "I have to…"
"You don't have to." His voice is low, and rough, and perfect. So damn perfect.
"Yes, I do." She's lost in his eyes, in his touch, yet still she thinks she'd rather be anywhere else and she can't figure it out. She pushes him lightly and he won't move, and she pushes again and he releases her from the prison that is him and the wall, and she answers the door, ridiculously nervous about confronting anyone else.
"Rory, oh..." She's (almost) speechless.
"I don't understand."
Babette eyes her messy hair and rumpled shirt and she curses herself for not thinking and smoothes it out.
"What did you come for?" she asks, trying to stay calm.
"It doesn't matter anymore, honey."
She tries the innocent act. "What…"
"Don't give me that, now." Babette lowers her voice, about to say something else, but she can't stand it anymore.
"I was looking for my book," she smiles, and it feels all too fake and she's scared and she wants to intercept the next phone call Babette makes. And she knows it's going straight to Miss Patty and for a moment she hates this town. And then she hates herself for hating it, because she loves it, but the moment is over and done and she's guilty and stupid and she hated it, and she is such a hypocrite.
"It fell behind the couch, and then I had to move it, and I'm such a klutz, and I tripped over myself, of course." She laughs nervously.
"Okay," Babette answers, smiles a little, and she knows Babette doesn't believe her for a minute and she hates that he always makes her lie.
She feels almost relieved at being released from the role of princess, foolishly thinking that sleeping with someone (however untrue it was) would take that away.
There's too much hating going on.
There is an overwhelming desire for things to be right that she will not admit to in a million years. It is not for the same reasons he always has—those are good ones, those are reasonable, those fit him.
It's for selfish, ugly reasons, ones like the possibility of 'I told you so's hanging in the air, unsaid. Those are worse, the silent kind, eliciting the kind of look you can feel on your back but can't turn around and glare off, because that means acknowledging the truth.
So she accepts the fact, and she walks around town, feeling like acid is thrown at her back with every step.
It's funny how something that started out in her favor, started out with her as princess (even queen), ended up so badly. Ended up with her so guilty. Every smile to her is a dart, crashing through her innocent front and shattering it, breaking it open, leaving everything for all to see.
But no one sees it.
She's still perfect. It's not her fault and half of them don't believe this crazy lie anyway.
And she can't stand it for one more second, and still she does. And the acid drips, eating away at her conscience for reasons she still can't figure out, and she must stay silent.
Then she suddenly thinks that he must have felt something like this way the whole time. Felt this way and dealt with it, felt this way and took it…
Took it well.
And she feels worse, and she sees him all the time, particularly when she doesn't want to, and he never, ever says a thing and she doesn't want him to until she thinks she has to shake his shoulders and shout and make him speak because he's driving her insane.
She returns, walking slowly, and immediately he sees that something's wrong, and he doesn't understand what it could be.
"Rory?" he asks, mildly concerned.
"When you get back," she says shakily, "Luke's gonna ask you what you did."
He stops. "What?"
"Babette," she says simply.
"I don't get it."
"Well, she saw me like this, what was she supposed to think?"
He shrugs. "You lost your book under the bed, and you went to look for it, and you fell and got caught," he suggests. She laughs bitterly, and decides never to tell him how close he is to what she said. It's scary, showing her how much she's becoming like him, and she isn't sure if she loves that or if it makes her want to run away.
"It isn't…" she begins.
"It isn't?" It's sardonic, it's pretending he has no idea what she means, and she gets angrier.
"It shouldn't happen now. Us! This! It's not right."
"Why?" He looks right at her. "Why isn't it right?" he asks, dangerously (it seems that way to her). "Because you can't stand the idea of your precious townies seeing you at the door in anything less than a prep school uniform?"
"Jess—"
"Pressed and neat and clean and perfect."
"Jess."
"The town princess is the first thing to go."
"Jess."
"Then everything else, and gasp, it might even be a town and not a village."
"Damn it, Dodger."
She keeps picturing his back walking out that door, the slight jaunt in his step that she knows was there to make her think it didn't matter. (She's not fooled.) That image is there, frozen in her head, probably forever, while the rest of the town has the one of her and him conjured in their minds as the rumor spreads.
Every day gets her closer to actually screaming.
Screaming that it's true, all true, even though it's not, and it never was, and maybe she does want it to be after all.
Maybe she lied to herself, and to him, and really to everyone, by denying it (because that's what not protesting is). Maybe the actual action isn't the important thing, but instead the fact that it could happen and it should happen and it will happen if she gets the chance again.
Lorelai is beyond disturbed, more so by Rory's continual insistence that nothing, really, nothing occurred. If there's one person she needs to trust her, it's her mother, and she's the person whose disbelieving look hurts the most. (Rory is a perfect liar now, whichever version of it she gives, to whomever. Lying to save herself and her friends. What a martyr. That's to be admired.) Lorelai understands, partially, possibly thinking she knows about wanting to keep it a secret, and she says nothing: no chiding, no responsibility talks.
But Rory has also noticed that Lorelai doesn't defend her when the few people who think she really has lost all innocence start talking. She's possibly glad of this, because being defended would kill her.
And Luke? Luke is silent in all this, a statue carved in stone, only moving for the coffee and the pancakes—which Lorelai still demands and begs for, in a slightly humbled tone. (That word can't fit her; sounds so wrong.)
Three of the people he cares about most and this is all her damn fault.
No.
Why is it her fault? She was mistaken, it's a small town; rumors are a necessity. She'd like to think it will be over and understood and forgotten, but that doesn't happen and she's well aware of it. It is funny when they talk about the protest that never really happened, the troubadour debacle, Kirk breaking his dance marathon trophy in excitement. But now that she's the subject, it is suddenly a very bad joke.
And she doesn't even want to go back and apologize to those who must have felt remotely the way she does now, at any time.
She is glad the 'perfect' cover has been ripped off, no matter how. No matter that to most everyone, it's still there, undisturbed. She's worried just because she doesn't know how to replace it.
He leaves without another word, and she is sorry she ended the argument that way.
He's not her Dodger anymore.
Later, she wants to work it back up to what it once was, to when she enjoyed it most. The taunting closeness of friendship and the banter that came with it. The honesty that happened because there was no reason to be judged.
And then that honesty turned into that kiss, became what they both wanted so badly, and all of the magic began to slip away.
She tries the friendship thing again, but he knows and she knows and they both look away before any hint of regret or of longing appears in either of their eyes.
And it hurts.
And she knows everything about him, but nothing she's always wanted to know. She can predict his moves across the diner, and she loves that she can. And then he does something unexpected and she wants to ask him what the hell he's thinking, but she can't.
The friendship leads to honesty which leads to love which leads to nothing, and it's all a very vicious circle. She starts to think that eventually, this town will become a kind of Venn diagram, and she shudders at the thought. It isn't true, couldn't possibly be true, because she loves this town, and she is a Good Judge of Character.
Except for her own, obviously.
She goes to the diner anyway.
Neither terror nor disaster can interrupt routine for too long, and there isn't much fighting before she gives in, even though Lorelai isn't there begging her, this time around.
And sooner or later, he'll be the only one at the counter, and she's terrified, and she's looking forward to it, and she doesn't know why, because despite their pathetic tries he is still furious and she is still mad and they know nothing can ever work. She worries that she lied about loving him, but when she recalls that scene in her mind, there is no hint of untruth there. And it makes her miss it, miss him.
She's not perfect, and she's glad she's not perfect, but still she wants to be perfect and to always know what to say.
How does that work? she wonders, but doesn't delve further into the subject for fear of getting too confused, or worse, uncovering something like being utterly sorry for something she swore she'd never regret.
You aren't supposed to regret saying no.
But then, she never has really followed the customary pattern.
She can't forget what it feels like, him surrounding her.
She doesn't want to, either.
She whispers the words, sitting at the counter. I'm sorry, I'm sorry. She tells him the truth, in the back of her mind. I always loved you. She stares at him, meaningfully, all the time, whenever his back is turned.
Until she is the last person in the diner, and there is no one else to pretend to clean up after and no one else to make fake eye contact with. He is left with her, and he isn't sorry, and he doesn't know what she wants him to be thinking.
People have been glaring at him, him instead of her.
This is what they expected of him. They knew it all along.
What a jerk.
He's taking it. He wouldn't dare disrupt her blissful imperfection by explaining that nothing happened, and it's not because he knows no one would believe him. It's because he knows that she should be enjoying it.
But she isn't, and every time she goes over it in her head, her conclusion is that she should be and she's so messed up.
There's only one reason she can think of that he'd do this for her, and that, well, that can't be true.
He meant every single thing he said that night, and she loves him for it, and she hates herself for that. She will never grow out of being wrong.
I'm a total spaz.
She was right, thinking that, when she was only fifteen. She wonders, if she could go back and tell herself that, would she, and she knows the answer before the unspoken question is even finished.
She is never going to forget that feeling, because damn, it was amazing.
"Hey," she says, and is immediately mortified. How is it up to her to decide if it's time for them to talk? He's not exactly searching her out, and once again his eyes are perfectly impassive.
"Hey." It's the shortest one-syllable word she's ever heard anyone speak.
"I'm…"
"Don't say you're sorry," he says, too gently. "You're not."
Yeah, I am! is stuck in her throat and something won't let it escape.
"Well," she answers stubbornly, "I want to be hated for something I actually did."
"Rory, no one hates you, okay? No matter how much you hope. It isn't going to happen. You grew up here, you chose this role. Trust me."
She hates him for always being right.
"It's not fair," she says, very quietly, fighting tears.
"Life isn't fair."
"I never thought you'd answer me with a cliché," she replies, slightly amused. The amusement dissipates into thin air with his next comment.
"Well, you know, I know about that one. It's actually true."
And she feels awful.
And he always makes her feel awful.
"I'm sorry," she tells him, almost indistinguishably.
He lets it slide, because he knows that this time, she really means it. And for a moment, he wishes he could lodge himself in her world, possibly in her heart, and stay there for the rest of time, because despite being predictable, it is safe and he adds the danger, and it ends up being the perfect combination.
No.
The right combination.
Something between them breaks, and he shifts where he's standing and moves to wipe off a table, and they are no longer staring directly at each other. She wants him to come back but doesn't say anything.
"Want some coffee?"
"How did you know?"
"Get it yourself," he says, nodding at the pot steaming behind the counter.
"I get to go behind the counter? I am honored beyond description."
"That doesn't sound right," he points out.
She frowns. "I know. I can't think of the right phrase." He smirks.
"Lorelai would kill to be in your place right now."
"Yeah," Rory answers, a hint of sadness in her voice, and he realizes why.
"Sorry."
"No, it's okay."
And suddenly she is hit with a revelation—what if they skip the friendship part?
What if they go straight to honesty. What if what is supposed to happen happens right away? Could that mean that maybe, it is alright after all? That they are alright, after all?
Yeah right, she thinks. It was long ago decided that 'alright' is something they will never be. It was known before that day in her room, before he kissed her like that, before he held her so she wanted him touching her all the time. The only difference was, then, that they were okay with not being alright.
Because love cancels that out.
It is her turn to tell the cold hard truth.
She pours herself a mug of coffee she doesn't drink, and she stays behind the counter, waiting.
And he returns, because there is only so long one can procrastinate, hesitate, stop.
And as their lips meet, he thinks maybe alright is the way it should be.
He thinks it's possible that love can go with it. (He couldn't deny he loves her now. Loves her for knowing she was stuck and doing nothing to get out, and loves her for lying to him.) He thinks maybe he was wrong about stating that she wasn't sorry, and he can say truthfully right now that he knows he is.
She prefers to tell the truth. He can understand that.
She knows it will take a while for this all to blow over.
Right now, she doesn't give a damn who's looking in the window.