Notes: Future. Literati. Co-written with Arianna555. Feedback is always appreciated. Thanks for reading.
Disclaimer: We own not, you sue not. GG is ASP's and the WB's. Sorry folks, we're broke. Lyrics/Title are by Dashboard Confessional.
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Vindicated
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(so clear)
Like the diamond in your ring
Cut to mirror your intentions
Oversized and overwhelmed
The shine of which has caught my eye
(so let me slip away)
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His hands are everywhere, touching, landing, caressing; but it's all too fast, all too soon. He moves in, hears the faceless girl muffled scream, and wonders if his was the name that she cried out loud. He doesn't remember telling her.
But it's okay; he wasn't thinking of her either.
Up and down, up and down. His chest rises, falls, and he ends up collapsing into a dreamless oblivion. The alcohol continues to swirl in his mind, drowning out the moment.
When he wakes, it is morning, or early afternoon, and he sits up wondering about the events of the night before. The sunlight is too harsh, and he struggles to keep his eyes open. He looks around, notes the piles of books and clothing, and thanks god that he is in his own room.
Click.
His bathroom door opens; she steps out, and he utters the only word that comes into his mind.
Shit.
It can't be her.
She was everything else to him, but never this, because this is impossible. It doesn't happen. It happens, with everyone else, but with her this is the forbidden territory, the never, the nonexistent.
It is her.
For now, everything is frozen. Wrong, wrong, wrong rings in his ears, but he ignores it, blocks it out, and stands up. She tenses, her eyes traveling over him, and then she looks at the floor and says nothing.
The best way to deal with a mistake is to pretend it never existed. That way it slowly fades into history, and after a while, it is never remembered. He dresses, concentrating on nothing, his mind blank, and moves toward the kitchen, dazed in a way he isn't used to.
She hesitates, long enough that he can almost tell what she is thinking. But before he can quite place it, she follows him, walking just as slowly, quietly.
The bedroom is too tension-filled for the needed conversation.
They eat breakfast – eggs and coffee – like they used to, and engage in a wordless conversation. Her eyes shift towards him now and then, never landing, always floating. He keeps his gaze down, knowing he will catch her staring if he looks up. He doesn't want to risk it.
Breakfast is eventually finished, the tension still hanging heavily in the air.
She struggles to breathe, feels a knot in her stomach, and begins to wring her hands on her unflatteringly wrinkled blouse. She wants to shed it, and throw it into the fire and watch it burn. She notes it quietly, taking in the stains: stains of him, stains of the night before, stains of a mistake.
She's never hated the color white more.
Desperate, she flees to the bathroom, leaving him at the kitchen table. She closes the door, wanting privacy, and dares to look at the mirror. She brings up a hand, trying to brush away her bangs, and notices.
Something is missing.
She rushes out, frantic, and stumbles into the bedroom.
The diamond sparkles, blinding and unforgiving.
"Oh, god, no …" she whimpers, lips trembling.
"Um … are you okay?"
She wants to respond. No, I'm not okay, how could I be okay? She wants to tell him. This wasn't just a simple mistake. She wants to say it honestly. How could we, I'm sorry, and thank you.
But it doesn't take him long enough to notice.
"Oh, god," he says.
Now that he sees it, the sun on the gold is apparent, even blinding, and he thinks he could never look away.
"What the hell were you thinking?" No, no, she was thinking the same thing he was: nothing. Absolutely nothing. That was always their connection, thinking. About literature. About music. About them. It's fitting that a mistake as wrong as this one happened because they didn't.
Alcohol is pure magic.
"I'm sorry." It's the same old words again, over and over. "I'm sorry, Jess."
He will not allow his voice to break. It's rough, dry, as he says, "At least you took the time to take it off."
"I'm sorry!"
"That doesn't cut it this time, Rory."
"This wasn't all my fault."
"Well, it wasn't all mine."
The bar is packed, jammed with drunks, and overflowing with idiots. The scene is a blur to him, the alcohol taking its effect. Nameless people pass him; their features are blurred and undistinguishable. He walks –or rather, stumbles – as he makes his way to get another round of drinks for the guys. Who is he with again?
The light is dim, and the air reeks of sweat mixing with beer.
He stops half way to the counter, stumbling, and falling into her.
"Hi," he slurs.
"Hi," she repeats back to him. Her face familiar, he swears that he's seen her somewhere before, but dismisses the thought. It doesn't matter. She was probably just a passing glance.
The light is dimmer now, flickering. The music plays in the background, but he doesn't hear the notes. It blends together, smoothly, and he doesn't mind it much. He feels her hand grasping his, pulling him away, towards the corner.
She's drunk, and so is he, but she's here – here and now – and that's all that matters.
He nudges her up against the wall, bringing his lips down to her, melding their hips together. She tastes like honey mixed with beer, and he thinks that he's had this concoction before. Her flavor is familiar, and he very briefly contemplates stopping and remembering; but this, like her face, is dismissed immediately.
Maybe he's imagining things.
She weaves her hands together behind his neck, bringing him closer.
After a while, he pulls away, takes her hand, and drags her towards the exit. They stumble out the door and to his apartment (it's not far from the bar, now isn't that convenient?). When they reach it, she pulls his face to her and kisses him so hard that he fumbles with his keys. The door is eventually opened, and they stagger inside.
He shuts it, leads her to the bedroom, the scent of alcohol marking their tracks.
"I know," she says finally, moving away, then back, standing beside him. She's a little too close and his throat closes up, breathing in her scent: still alcohol, sweat, and Rory, always Rory.
Hesitantly, she picks up the ring, smoothing it in her fingers, twisting the band around her thumb.
"I'm not going to ask who it is," Jess tells her.
She straightens and looks into his eyes, stubbornly tossing her head. "You wouldn't know him anyway."
"I bet I wouldn't." He pauses. "He doesn't hang out in bars, does he?"
"Why do you care?"
"Does he?"
"You do," she points out, then swallows, realizing what she's said.
"Maybe I do." He looks at her, right at her, shoving his hand in his pocket. "But why would that matter?" He debates whether to say this. "You were. Not having a bad influence on you, is he?"
"Maybe he is."
"Uh huh." Well then, what a great choice.
"I never wanted to be that girl," she says abruptly.
"What?"
"The one-night stand. Especially not to you."
"What, am I special?"
She looks away, fierce glare grazing the unused fireplace instead of him. "You know you are."
"No, Rory, I don't. I'm just a fucked up drunk in New York City, and suddenly, the girl I meet is someone I used to know. That doesn't make me anything. I bet it happens all the time."
"I doubt it." She won't give him the satisfaction of her crying, even though she knows it would hurt him more than help. She plays with the ring, sliding it across her palm, and slowly she slips it on.
"Congratulations," he tells her.
It's different than it usually is. She stands out more.
Their breathing is synchronized, right, exact, and when he opens his eyes to look at her there's something he could swear he recognizes. It's almost what he could call wonderful, for moments, but the alcohol dulls everything.
Her (who?) and him. It's real, it's true, it's so far from idyllic that the idea could make him laugh, if he felt like it. But he doesn't.
"I'm sorry," she repeats again, voice breaking.
"It doesn't matter, Rory," he tells her, his voice cold and nonchalant.
She looks around the room, taking everything in (the scent, the books, the cluttered mess) and breathes in. This is the setting for their 'the end'. It's not beautiful or ideal; but then again, bittersweet 'the ends' never are.
"You won't tell anyone?" she asks, bringing her eyes back to him.
"No," he answers back in the same clipped tone.
She half wishes she could tell the world, but that thought is pushed to the back corner of her mind. It will not come up again for years. She wants to say thanks, but that sounds too useless and stupid to mean anything right now.
"You still hungry?" he asks.
She shakes her head, looking around the room one last time. The finality of it hovers above them, and she thinks she's not ready to let it fall.
Silently, she makes her way out the door, blending easily with the crowds.
He doesn't follow.