When she moved to New York, the "emergencies" became less urgent. Their unspoken, organic arrangement evolved into something no longer limited to deaths and major illnesses (though the cancer scare had turned out okay); it now expanded out to include smaller tragedies. They were still by no means traditional "friends"; they didn't "hang out", despite living in the same city. But they did see each other more. They knew few of the details of the other's daily life, yet they knew the intricacies of the intense, difficult moments. How she would start out strong but eventually break down. How he could no longer handle disappointing people, especially if it meant leaving a debt unpaid. How her hands would shake when she was on the verge of losing it. How he would bottle everything up when other people were around, but start talking when it was just the two of them. The way her body felt when she sobbed against him. The set of his mouth when the tears would finally leak from his eyes.

He'd only ever called her drunk once. It had made her heart hurt, hearing the raw vulnerability and desperation in his voice. She couldn't understand half of what he was saying, something about Truncheon being his home and always losing what he loved, interspersed with slurred lines of Beatnik poetry.

Trust Jess to spout Bukowski while completely sauced.

She'd coaxed the name of the bar out of him and was there in under twenty minutes. He had a few friends with him, people she didn't know, who looked equally dismal and equally drunk. Truncheon was closing, going belly up as so many others in the print publishing world had, and today had been the day the final decision was made.

He'd insisted she drink with them. She'd tried to refuse, but eventually she just sighed and gave in. Her car would be safe enough parked outside for the night; they could cab it back. If this was what he needed, she would do her best to provide it. She hated to see him like this, reckless and wild and hurt, such a marked change from his usual quiet, self-contained self. If her getting tipsy gave him something to hold onto, something to focus on, then she would do it.

She ended up a bit tipsier than she'd planned though, and the evening ended up less controlled than she would have liked. They found themselves dancing to bad bar music until last call, finding solace in the movement and the warmth of each other's body and the mindless beat.

It had been about forgetting. But in the taxi riding back to his apartment, he couldn't help but remember. He opened up, reminiscing about everything Truncheon had come to mean to him. He kept on telling her, so fervently, "It was my home, Rory? Y'know? It was my home." He told her how it had come to represent his small measure of success in life; one of the few things he'd gotten right; the turning point at which he went from an insolent and angry boy to a more mature, grounded man. It was his pride, and he was losing it. "Just like I lose everything. Just like I lost you."

"Shh, Jess," she soothed, "We're here."

She tossed their fare to the driver and stumbled with him out of the car, adding quietly, "And you never lost me."


They faded from each other's lives for the next month or two, as per usual, until one night her name flashed on his phone and just like that, he was completely awake. She didn't just call; that wasn't what they did. His heart was beating just a little bit faster as he picked up, only a ring and a half in.

"Hello?"

"Jess. It- it's Rory." The few words spoke volumes. She sounded tired, weak, confused. He felt a surge of concern- no, almost panic- flood him.

"What's wrong?"

"I- I don't feel good." Her breath hitched, like a flash of unexpected pain had stopped her, before she continued, "This is gross, but I can't stop puking."

His tensed muscles relaxed slightly, and he shook his head shortly. She was calling him for this? "You're drunk."

"No! I'm not. I- I really don't feel good. I'm lightheaded and everything hurts and I can't keep anything down. Look, I'm sorry to call, I just, my doctor called in a prescription, and there's no way I can get it myself, and Daniel's out of town, and my friends are all flakes who really don't even qualify for the title of 'friend' at all…" She trailed off, the obvious question unspoken.

He felt foolish, getting worked up and worried, even if briefly, over something like this. Maybe not drunk, though he wouldn't be surprised if she was just too embarrassed to tell him, but food poisoning certainly wasn't any better. He glanced at the clock. Already 12:15 AM. There was no way he'd be back in time to get a decent night's sleep, and his morning was slated to start at 6:00 AM sharp.

But she was Rory. And he was Jess.

"What pharmacy?"


He knocked on her apartment door and found himself waiting just a moment or two longer than he should have. He was there, meds in hand, still slightly annoyed but cooling off after the train ride over.

She finally unlocked the door and told him to come in.

"Thanks for coming."

"Yeah." He might've handed her the bag and left right then, but she was already walking away, leaving him in the entryway with the door still wide open.

"Hang on," she called back to him, as she pulled the bathroom door shut behind her.

He counted his blessings for well-insulated walls, as he could just barely hear her retching, and that only if he listened hard. He walked toward the living room, putting a bit more distance between himself and the bathroom.

When she came back out, he was sitting on the sofa, jacket still on, bag set carelessly on the coffee table. He looked up and appraised her. She was wearing sweat pants and an old t-shirt; her skin was pale and she looked a bit unstable on her feet. She took a deep breath and sat next to him on the couch, pulling a blanket over herself as she did.

"Sorry. It's gross, I know… Thanks- thanks for coming." She sounded a bit faint, and some of Jess's earlier concern returned.

"Are you okay?"

She nodded her head, eyes closing as her breath hitched again, "My stomach just hurts. Probably from the vomiting. And I'm kind of freezing. God, it's so cold in here. Are you cold?"

She was definitely shivering, despite the normal temperature in the room. He reached out a hand to check her forehead.

"Rory, you're burning up. How long have you had a fever?"

"I don't- I don't know." Her eyes were still closed, and it looked like she was about to fall asleep. Or pass out. Jess wasn't sure which.

"Where's your thermometer?"

She didn't answer. Was she really asleep? He moved his hand back over her forehead, smoothing her hair in that universally comforting motion. His hand moved to rest on her cheek, cupping her face, trying gently to wake her up.

"Rory?"

She murmured but didn't open her eyes. He sighed and made his way to the bathroom, ready to rummage through her medicine cabinet.

Her temperature ended up being 103.2, high enough for Jess to be legitimately worried, his earlier annoyance and cynicism completely forgotten. He managed to get some Tylenol and the anti-nausea medicine in her, as well as a little bit of Gatorade. He was debating whether she was just dehydrated and had the stomach flu, or if it was something more serious.

"Rory." He tried to wake her once more.

"Hmm?"

"Rory, do we need to go the hospital? How bad is the pain?"

She sighed and opened her eyes. "Not that bad. I'm fine. Just sick."

"103.2 is not fine."

Her eyes were closing again. "Just need to rest."

His eyebrows were knit together and he was chewing his lip raw, unsure what to do. Let her rest, while her appendix might be bursting or God knows what; or take her in, maybe unnecessarily?

But she looked more or less peaceful, while she was sleeping at least, and she hadn't vomited again since he'd gotten there.

"Okay," he said letting out a breath and taking off his shoes, "If you puke again, or if your fever doesn't break, or if the pain gets worse, we're going to the ER."

The plan was more for him than for her. She was dead asleep. He took another deep breath, and prepared to stay for the night.

Morning came eventually, and Rory seemed okay. Not perfect, but not scary sick anymore either. Jess had been up every few hours to check on her. The fever had broken, she'd managed to drink a little more, and she actually did look better when she finally woke up. But it was 5:00 AM and he needed to go.

"You gonna be okay?" He asked, after he'd splashed some water on his face and tried to smooth his wrinkled clothes.

"Yeah. I actually feel a lot better. Thanks, Jess. For taking care of me." She paused, then looked down, refusing to meet his eyes, "I probably shouldn't have called you for this, or asked you to spend the night."

"Rory." He waited until she looked up at him, "I'm glad you called. And you didn't ask. I just did it anyway."

He looked at her intently for a moment, then bent down to her, still on the couch, and kissed her forehead.

"Get some rest, okay?" he whispered as he left.