No One's Gonna Love You More Than I Do
Setting: before, during, and after Those Are Strings, Pinocchio
Summary: It is not a feeling you've had before but, now that you have, it's not one that you're willing to give up on quite so easily. Lit.
A/N: I just kept getting ideas about this thing, so I had to add to it. I'm pretty sure this is it, since there are no more lyrics to the song but... enjoy.
(Anything to make you smile)
He has never been one for the holidays, you know this. He gets quieter, around this time, almost withdrawn. He's distant with everyone else, just plain different with you. Something to do with his mother and her forgetfulness, you're sure (but you've never asked; you don't think you have the courage to tread those waters just yet).
Still, he's here, with you, and you know that has to count for something. (It does.)
"—three… two… one!"
You nudge the hand resting gently on your knee to get his attention as the volume of the cheering around you increases. You twirl the noise maker in your hand. "Happy New Year," you murmur softly. His lips are on yours before you can even finish the sentence, soft, sweet—both things you wouldn't attribute to him normally. "What was that?"
He shrugs. "Tradition," he answers.
"Mmh, and here I thought you hated tradition."
"Not this kind."
(You are the ever-living ghost of what once was)
You're awake before he is.
Morning comes faster than you expected, quicker than you're willing to accept. In spite of the (almost) soundless sleep you got the night before, you're still tired.
It's earlier than you thought and the soft glow of twilight streams into your room through open curtains. You roll over, expecting but not entirely prepared to be met with resistance. Not that you're complaining exactly.
But you weren't expecting this, him, coming back here, being here. Saying goodbye has never been his forte and you were so ready to begin to prepare yourself for the long haul of getting over him.
Well, almost.
You close your eyes for a moment, lacing your fingers between his as he sleeps on. You have hardly ever seen him so at ease, completely relaxed with you, and you wonder if, just maybe, you can try to make this work again.
And, with him being here, you're pretty sure you can start to let that happen.
(I never want to hear you say)
You never wanted to be the one to say it; you didn't want to be the one to put an end to it officially, not when you've done so much heart breaking already. It wasn't fair to him, you thought, so you just kept it to yourself, never voiced the concern that you thought things were ending, that the relationship that had been there for two years was slowly disintegrating because you couldn't stop running your thumb across lips that could still feel the kiss from another boy.
A boy who, obviously, does not want you. He has made that fact abundantly clear and you chastise yourself for trying to convince yourself of anything different.
"Rory? Is there something wrong?"
"It's nothing." But, in all actuality, it's everything. But, you know that's not what he wants to hear and, as the good girlfriend you feel obliged not to tell him that.
And so, you bite down on your bottom lip, just to keep yourself from spewing out all the things you want to say (and all the things you shouldn't).
You shake your head emphatically, telling yourself to forget it, that it doesn't matter. That you don't sometimes find yourself giving in to the fantasy that it's his arm around your waist, his hand in yours fingers interlocked and never letting go. That you don't feel your stomach clench in anticipation whenever he's near you. That your heart doesn't drop to the floor every time you stumble upon him kissing her.
He's waiting, you realize, waiting for Dean to leave, waiting for the moment where he can make his presence known. And still, even as that realization hits you, you don't get up to leave. You stay, lying to yourself about how important it is that you finish this half-filled cup of lukewarm coffee.
"So." You know by his tone— succinct perfunctory and challenging— that this "so" is just the beginning, simply the start of a diatribe that will be nothing but a line of truths that you don't want to hear but you ignore him. Or, to be more specific, you want to.
"What?" Blink once, twice, and then the fog clears, you realize it's been at least ten minutes since Dean left and nearly five minutes since the blonde idiot—whose name you deliberately refuse to remember—walked out the door.
"How is that going by the way?"
You can tell by the slight and almost unnoticeable curl of his lip, the over exaggerated pronunciation, what (or, rather, who) he's referring to, without asking. (You hate that, still, in spite of everything, you remember all his habits—big, small, and in between.)
You don't feel the need to play dumb with him (and yet you have every reason to tiptoe around certain things.) The worst thing, you figure, would be for him to be aware of your feelings for him.
It's not what you want- or at the very least, it shouldn't be.
"Fine."
He's quiet and, for a moment, you are almost hopeful. For what, you're not sure. "You've been avoiding me."
"No, I haven't. Avoidance implies intention and actual thought. I'd have to make a conscious decision to avoid you. And I don't have any reason to think about you," you rant, barely pausing to punctuate and separate the words and sentences that fall from your mouth.
"Right, why would you?"
"I wouldn't." An unexpected well of anger courses through you but really you shouldn't be surprised. He can have that effect on you, which you both secretly like and hate.
"Sure." (You tend to forget he knows you better than you give him credit for.)
(That you'd be better off)
He stirs, opens his eyes, and you are the first thing that they land on. (It's deliberate, on your part, but you don't say that.) You don't say much of anything.
Instead, you wait for him to make the first move—a force of habit—you wait for him to acknowledge that coming back means something, that it changes things.
He opens his mouth, but doesn't say anything; he's tentative, hesitant about whatever it is that he's going to do—which is different (to say the least) and you're not completely sure how you're supposed to handle that. Or this.
"Hey." He is not a "hi" kind of guy. It doesn't suit him, and you like that it doesn't.
"Hi." Your voice, barely above a whisper from the proximity and the anticipation (of what, you're not sure) if you weren't lying so close, you doubt he would have been able to hear you.
"We should probably talk, huh?"
"Is that why you came back? Just to talk?" You know that's not the entire reason—or at least, you hope so—but still, it's not enough to know. You need to hear it.
(Or you liked it that way)
"Why did you come here?"
"What?"
"Why did you come here?" he repeats the words more slowly this time, as if he's trying to find the meaning behind each one.
"…You didn't say goodbye." It's simple, and the truth, but only a small portion of it. You don't tell him you were glad that he didn't actually say the words, thankful that you didn't have to close the door on the part of your life that existed solely between the two of you forever. You didn't want him to say goodbye.
He nods and as he opens his mouth, you suck in a breath and hold it, hoping against everything that he doesn't say the words that you've been trying to avoid.
He does. "Goodbye, Rory."
You don't want to echo his sentiment, don't want to say what you know everyone's been waiting for you to say, but you realize, with a solemn nod, that you don't really have a choice. And so, you do.
"Goodbye, Jess."
Still, as the bus pulls away, you look over your shoulder, unwilling to look away until your neck hurts from the strain and Jess is nothing but a dot in the distance. Still, you can't help but cling to the hope that neither of you means it.
(But no one is ever gonna love you more than I do)
You can see that he's trying to say it, to let you know what he's thinking—sans sarcasm—and that this isn't easy. You can't pretend that it is, not now.
"No. I just didn't want you to think that this—you—didn't matter."
"I don't think that." You don't; you couldn't possibly but, really, you're not sure what it is that you're supposed to think right now.
(No one's gonna love you more than I do)
You pull him into the booth on an impulse, without any forethought or second-guessing—which you figure is the same reason he stays with you rather than instinctively pulling away—by not thinking, analyzing, comparing.
The space is small, cramped with just barely enough room for you let alone another person. This booth was meant for children but you don't point that out and neither does he.
"Smile," you tease.
"This is the best that I can give you." He smirks, tilts his head to the side so your chin rests against his cheek. It feels nice, feels right.
You smile. "Impossible boy."
"You love it."
You come this close—so close—to editing his statement by switching pronouns and changing subjects, but instead you just smile wider and kiss him softly, sweetly, moments before the light flashes again.
"That I do." (You can't resist throwing in a slight variation.)
(But someone they should have warned you)
Somehow, it's always easier to talk at the bridge. Your bridge.
Somehow, just by sitting there, feet dangling over its edge, barely skimming the surface of the water has simply made the words flow, string themselves together in a way that actually makes sense.
You guess, in a way, the bridge has been your security blanket, a safety net. You would give just about anything to be there now, to transport yourself to that place of comfort and ease, to let that complete sense of tranquility wash over you that can only come from being there.
It's easier there. You guess—you know—you tend to hide behind the pretenses it provides for you but right now, at this moment, you would give anything to have something to hide behind.
(When things start splitting at the seams and now)
It's on the plane ride home that you start mentally rewriting the speech (of sorts) that you had planned. Suddenly, you're doubting every word and every meaning. Suddenly, you're wishing you'd actually finished at least one of the letters you started two months ago but none of those words sounded right, none of them fit.
Jess, I have always thought—
You stop that train of thought, now suddenly unsure. Always thought about what? Him? Being with him? Even in your mind, you can't help but think it sounds desperate, pathetic, pining—none of which sound particularly appealing to your tastes.
By the time you land, your mind has conjured up a thousand different scenarios, the endings varying between great, horrible, and not-worth-mentioning.
By the time you've arrived home you have finally sorted out the words and picked apart the phrases, abandoning the form of proper and precise and landing on full-out honesty. By the time you get to the Lazy Days Festival, you have finally decided on what to say to him.
By the time you actually see him—with her—you can't remember a word of it.
(The whole thing's tumbling down)
You realize that you don't possess the ability to change him overnight.
You realize that even if you could, you honestly wouldn't want to.
(It's tumbling down…hard.)
"You're squirming. I've never seen you squirm. It's entertaining."
"Yeah?"
"Kind of." You're smiling, you realize, but only because you can't help but notice that he's smiling, too. A whole step above a smirk, which you can appreciate. "Looks like your secret is out; you do care." You lean forward, more into him than towards him.
He shrugs, a non-committal rise and languid drop of his shoulders, though he doesn't break gazes with you. You ignore the chill that trickles slowly along your skin. "Yeah, well, I guess you grew on me."
"Yeah?" You like the idea of that being true even if, at the moment, you're not up to admitting it.
"Kind of," he smirks, echoing your earlier words.
You let out a small laugh, a light chuckle, and watch in bemusement as the smirk transforms into another actual smile. It's small, but it's there and you feel only that much better for being the one who caused it.
You think you could get used to that feeling.
Review?