Disclaimer: Passages read out loud belong to Julio Cortazar's Final del juego. I couldn't find an english translation, I hope you do.

CHAPTER 2 – It ain't just a river...

Jess stares hard at Rory. "Weren't you going home?"

Rory holds up her hand as her eyes look over a sentence one more time. She scribbles something on the margin. "When I'm done."

"Rory..."

Rory looks up from the manuscript. Shrugs. "I guess I could take it home."

"It would be less unnerving for me, yes. I'd rather not be here while you dissect it."

"It's just some notes," Rory says.

Jess sighs. "And I feel the incessant need to look over your shoulder every time you put pen to paper. You could just take it home, read it at leisure, give it to me after your graduation. How's that for a plan?"

Rory nods, putting down the pen. "Alright, it does make more sense. Plus it gives you a chance to get back to work."

"I'm on vacation," Jess says.

"No you're not," Rory counters.

"What are you, the human resources department? I'm on vacation," he complains.

"Whatever you say," Rory replies, putting the cap back on the pen. She'd forgotten how soothing it was to work and to argue with Jess.

Jess rolls his eyes. "I've never taken time off. Matt and Chris owed me. And they're glad to get me out of their hair for two weeks. Gives them time to plot their latest "Lets-get-this-past-Jess" plan of the month."

"Which is?"

"A coffee bar or bind-your-own-fan-fiction-into-a-novel scheme."

"Tough call," Rory says, grinning.

Jess smiles. "You look better," he said.

Rory stretches her legs on the bed. "I feel better."

"I'll drive you up to Stars Hollow tomorrow, if you want," Jess offers. He walks over to the door and switches off the light. In the shadows, he tries to make out Rory's shape as she settles into sleep.

She nods slowly. "I'd like that." She pauses for a second, watching his silhouette shift its weight from one foot to the other. "Luke will be happy to see you."

Jess snickers. "Happy is not the word he'd use."

"Goodnight, Jess."

"Night."

- - - - - - - - - - - - -

Rory wears Jess's only long-sleeved shirt for the ride to Connecticut. It's light blue with thin, white, vertical stripes. Rory knows the minute she puts it on that she's probably not the first girl to wear his shirt, this shirt. She can almost picture the bare legs of another woman, barely covered by the shirttail, and she sighs as she pulls on a pair of his old jeans.

She's amazed by the fact that she fits in his clothes. He's so thin... but then, he's spent the past three days commenting on how skinny she is.

She can't really tell. She doesn't look at herself in the mirror anymore.

She's afraid to find new bruises, a different ugly reminder of her stupidity staring back.

She showers as if by inertia, not daring to look down at her body. She skips over bruises new and old with soapy hands, expertly avoiding the painful spots.

Jess is dressed, packed and reading by the time she finally drags herself out of the room. "I'm ready," she says, softly, hoping he won't hear. She feels like she's intruding, interrupting. In a way, she is.

"Good. Let's go."

- - - - - - - - - - - -

The first hour in the car is quiet. Too quiet. The car is old and the radio is busted and Jess doesn't say a thing.

"Aren't you bored?" Rory finally asks.

Jess shrugs. "I've gotten used to the quiet of the car. I just... think while I drive."

"It's creepy. I can hear the wheels spinning, the door unhinging..."

"The car's fine, Rory."

"I heard a ping coming from the motor. It sounded like..."

"Ping?"

"Yeah."

Jess rolls down his window a little more and listens. "No ping."

"Not now, because we're talking."

"Read, Rory," Jess suggests.

"That won't cover up the pinging."

"It will if you read out loud."

She rummages through the pile of books at her feet. The car is like a moving library, overdue books, stolen books, secondhand books.

"Ooh, Julio Cortazar," she says. "I've never seen this collection before."

"Skip ahead to the last one," Jess volunteers, looking fleetingly at the book she holds.

"It's in Spanish," Rory points out.

"You read Spanish, right?" Jess asks, recalling her nightmares a few days back.

Rory nods. "Two years in school, two in college. My accent is horrible, though."

"Try anyway."

"Final del juego." Rory starts. "That's The End of the Game."

"Keep going. I've read the translation before, and I understand enough."

Rory smils with pursed lips, but plows on. "Con Leticia y Holanda íbamos a jugar a las vías del Central Argentino los días de calor, esperando que mamá y tía Ruth empezaran su siesta para escaparnos por la puerta blanca. Mamá y tía Ruth estaban siempre cansadas después de lavar la loza..."

- - - - - - - - - -

The second Jess's car passes the town's Welcome sign, the rumor mill starts its grind. The words go from mouth to ear to mouth again.

So that was where Rory had been.

They had always suspected something like this would happen.

Everyone had known.

Running away right before graduation.

Shame.

Shame.

Shame.

- - - - - - - - - -

The car pulls up in front of Lorelai's and there's no time to think.

As soon as Rory's shoes touch the grass, Lorelai is already hugging her, so hard Jess thinks Rory might snap in two.

And the tears which she's kept at bay for days start flowing unchecked.

Lorelai hugs and whispers and holds Rory for what seemed like hours.

Then, taking her hand, she leads them all inside.

No one else sees, and Jess isn't sure he does either, but the second before Lorelai passes through the doorway, she turns to him and mouths a silent thank you.

- - - - - - - - - - -

Luke and Jess sit side by side on the Gilmore couch, the most uncomfortable couch known to man.

Even with the TV on, they can hear Lorelai's sobs, Rory's whispered retelling of every fight. They know that Rory's taking off her clothes, showing every bruise she has hidden.

"Was it bad?" Luke asks, softly. He doesn't dare look at Jess directly.

"Damn prick drank a lot... poor baby has it so bad working with his father, he just had to take his frustrations out on her..." Jess mutters, his voice simmering the hate. "I should've done something, I mean, I knew something was wrong when she called, every time I was on the verge of asking what was wrong, but... Has he come looking for her?"

Luke nods. "Once. I shoved him back in the car. Told him to stay away unless he wanted to be buried here. Haven't heard from him since."

"He'll show, you know. At her graduation," Jess whispers.

"We'll be there," Luke volunteers. "She'll be fine."

Jess nods slowly. He tries to concentrate on the television, on the noise and rumble, so that he won't hear Rory say, over and over again, that she is sorry.

- - - - - - - - - - -

It's late at night by the time Lorelai steps out of Rory's room, her eyes puffy and her nose red. She lets herself fall ungracefully into the couch and allows her head fall on Luke's shoulder.

"She asleep?" Luke asks.

Lorelai nods. "She... her arms... did you see her arms?" she cries, looking over at Jess for confirmation that it has all been a nightmare.

Jess just assents with his head. Once is enough.

"I should've seen it coming, I should've known." Lorelai shakes her head in disbelief. "He asked me for her hand in marriage and I said yes, how could I have said yes? Why didn't my Mom-radar go off?"

Neither Luke nor Jess can find anything to say.

Lorelai takes Jess's hand in hers and squeezed it. "Thank you. For... taking her in."

"No problem," Jess says, dismissing it.

"You and her... you always find each other, don't you?" Lorelai whispers, tired.

"If it weren't for her, I'd be scamming quarters in subway stations. What I have is hers," Jess says, the longest sentence he'd ever said to Lorelai.

"Funny," Lorelai replies. "She said something similar once, about you. Except she substituted scamming quarters in subway stations with riding limousines in cocktail dresses."

- - - - - - - - - - -

Hours after Lorelai and Luke have gone to bed, leaving him the couch all to himself, he's still tossing and turning.

There's no reason for it, but he still can't sleep. He wanders into the kitchen and pours himself a glass of water.

And then he jumps out of his skin when he feels a hand on his shoulder.

"Jeez, Rory, you scared me," he whispers, putting the glass down on the table.

"Sorry. I couldn't sleep either." Rory's wearing her own clothes again, pajamas with cupcakes on them. "I'm hungry."

"Want me to make you something?"

"What I really want is Pop-Tarts," Rory says. "Blueberry." She checks the cupboards. Finally she finds a box. "Ah. Strawberry. They'll do. Want one?"

"I never eat -"

"The stuff. I know. Humor me."

Jess smiles. "Fine. One."

"Great. You know, they come two to a packet," Rory mentions.

"I've been making these for you the past three days."

"I'm just saying, it's nice to share them with someone."

Jess raises an eyebrow. In the dark, he can be as honest as he wants. "I don't remember you being that big on sharing."

Rory pops the tarts into the toaster. "Excuse me? I lent you all those books."

"I stole them from you."

"I let you steal them from me."

"You tell yourself that."

"I will."

Jess looks straight at Rory, trying to find a way of saying... everything. But there isn't a right word, a perfect sentence. "I'm looking for the right word and all I can find is its second cousin," he finally says, apologetically.

"Paraphrasing Mark Twain?" Rory asks, her fingers nervous.

"Seemed appropriate."

"I don't think there's anything you can say," she recognizes.

Jess nods. "I could say I'll never let anyone hurt you again, but I can't promise that, not really."

"It should be me making that promise. I can't believe I let him... " she trails off, looking around the kitchen for a place to set her eyes. She can't look at Jess. Not yet. "I waltz in and out of your life, you waltz in and out of mine, but we always end up across from one another, trying to fix each other."

"It's not so much a waltz as it is a minuet," Jess quips.

Rory can't help smiling. "You're a goof when you want to be."

Jess shrugs. "I think that sooner or later we'll find a balance, a way to stop hurting each other and coexist peacefully. Maybe this is it. Maybe it'll take a few more rounds."

Rory nods.

And the toaster pushes the Pop-Tarts up. "They're ready."

- - - - - - - - - -

By the dim light of her table lamp, Jess settles into a chair in Rory's room.

"I'll read the rest of the story if you promise never to make me eat that awful crap again," he barters.

Rory nodds, pulling the covers atop her body. "I promise. But I still don't get how you can hate Pop-Tarts."

"Floury crust and filling akin to congealed sugary cough syrup."

"You're insane..."

"Do you want me to read or not?"

"Read."

"My accent's as bad as yours."

"No such animal," Rory says, getting comfortable.

Jess nods, flipping through the book. "Ok. Cuando íbamos a dormirnos esa noche, Holanda me dijo, 'Vas a ver que desde mañana se acaba el juego'. Pero se equivocaba aunque no por mucho..."

- - - - - - -

Sunlight streams into the room, and reaches Rory's eyes with curious determination. He'd finished reading the short story to her the previous night, and they'd stayed up an additional hour talking about every aspect of the story that could be analyzed.

They'd finally drifted off to sleep between some argument and another, their words becoming shorter, more incoherent as the yawns interrupted them.

The short story was complex in its simplicity. It was about the end of innocence, about appearances, and about loss, through the eyes of children.

Jess had always been a master at picking stories that were a commentary on their lives. This was no exception.

These were times for endings, for new beginnings.

Before she knows what she's doing, she's already crawling out of bed and closer to the chair where he's sleeping. She settles herself on his lap and she can feel he was stirring under her weight, until his eyelids flutter open. He looks at her, questioning her movements, but her eyes allow no words. She curls up, her arms clinging to his neck, her face buried in his shoulders.

She is here, a neat package of discombobulation, waiting for a decision only he can make.

He has two choices: he can either let her cling and do nothing, or he can close his arms around her and welcome her to his own confusion and darkness.

He breathes in the scent of her hair, unwashed for two days. Sweat mixed with the smell of his car, with vestiges of shampoo.

Her scent is so familiar that he knows there is no such thing as a choice to be made. His arms wrap around her because there is no other way.

Because even if what he smells is the effect of a day on the road, a day of crying, a year of pain, what he really senses is that she is home.

She is his home.

Cupcake pajamas and all.

TBC...

Sorry, I had to repost because the first post came out in the wrong verb-tense. Don't ask.

Next chapter, graduation! Tell me what you think?