Title: Pulse
Rating: R
Date Started: 10-17-07
Date Finished: 11-15-07
Summary: He was the force that shook her, kept her human. Through her chest, veins, cheeks, lips. She did always live to please. Future Fic. Literati.
Disclaimer: I don't own Gilmore Girls. The rights belong to Amy Sherman-Palladino and the WB. Not mine.
A/N: If you check out my profile I've posted some pictures that I used when writing Pulse, kind of like a visual aid. Anyways, these next three chapters are really going to deliver. Reviews are always appreciated.
Chapter Ten: Drag Queens and Saxophone Players
"What a beautiful wedding," Emily said affectionately, clutching her drink.
"It reminds me of when I married my third husband," Patty commented dreamily.
Babette began to hike up her panty hose under the table. "And did ya see that dress? Sexy, Lorelai's the only broad I know that could have pulled off a sexy wedding dress."
To this remark Emily merely laughed and got a refill for her sidecar.
Rory, who was sitting some two tables away, smiled into her glass of white wine and scooted a little closer to Jess.
"Are you happy? I'm happy, really happy. In fact, if they had a prize for happiness I'd loose–but to mom and Luke because they so deserve to win."
Jess smirked at her tipsy rambling and took her wine glass out of her hand. "You're done Gilmore, I think you head just can't handle all that booze." He laughed.
Rory laid one of her then empty hands on Jess's knee and leaned towards him, close. "Won't you dance with me Jess? Please? You look very nice by the way . . . "
He faked deliberating while Rory gave him her best Bambi impersonation.
"You owe me," she taunted.
"How do you figure?"
"You promised to take me to prom, remember? I had gone out and bought new shoes and picked out a dress." She played with the lapel of his jacket, smiling, blushing, teasing.
"Was it as nice as the one you're wearing now?"
"Definitely not." Rory replied, dragging Jess out of his char and onto the dance floor.
--
Someone had left the front porch light on. It was nice, considering how her brain was so foggy with sleep. The warm leather interior of Jess's '69 Dodge Charger felt smooth against her cheek, like a glove cupping her face.
She felt a hand on her shoulder. "Rory," her eyes cracked open. "Hey, you awake?"
Her reply was mumbled incoherently; she arched her back in a cat-like manner in an attempt to rouse herself.
"Jess," she rubbed her eyes while unbuckling her seatbelt. "How long was I asleep?"
He went around and opened the door for her. "About fifteen minutes. Twenty tops."
The pair began their stroll up Rory's front steps, stopping in front of her door, both looking a little worse for wear. The top button of Jess's shirt had come undone along with the knot of his tie. With his shirt untucked and hair wildly disheveled, he looked like a tired little kid ready to crawl into bed. Rory removed his jacket from her shoulders, returning it reluctantly. It had smelled so good, like cinnamon and the faint presence of tobacco.
She ran her fingers through her loose chestnut hair, trying to hide the pink tint to her cheeks as she adjusted the strap of her royal blue brides maids dress.
"Thanks for giving me a ride home," she couldn't stop looking at him, couldn't tear her eyes away from the flat planes of muscle peaking out of the V of his shirt, the definite line of his jaw.
"Anytime," Jess said, softly, his voice like a beat of staccato pressure on her throat.
It was almost like magnetism, two poles of energy pulling them towards each other through a waist-centered pulse. She could feel the pooling heat that had begun to gather between her legs, pacing faster as their hips brushed against each other. Her head was tilted slightly upward, not enough to hurt her neck, but just enough so that their lips could meet warmly, a vacuum of tension between them.
His arms held her around her waist, keeping her body against his as their mouths continued their exploration. It was like an exchange, a transfer of lower lip to upper lip and back again. Her hands wound themselves into his forest of wild, untamable curls, her arms held loosely around his neck. She felt his tongue, hot and soft, stroking the smooth outside of her lower lip, easing her open with the precision of a man who had seduced countless women.
Her face felt heated, flushed. The muscles around her mouth loosened, giving Jess clear control of the situation. He angled her hips–her supple waist beneath his hands–against the doorframe, applying a gentle, stirring pleasure. He moved to kiss her neck. All of his movements were expected, free, open. She objected to nothing.
His lips brushed her cheek, the corner of her mouth. They disconnected while he watched her, placid.
Quietly, Rory peered up at him through chocolate colored lashes, resting her palm on his chest.
"Will you stay with me?"
The words were out of her mouth before she could swallow them. In the smoky glow of the porch light she was unable to read Jess's subtle expression.
He looked down while he spoke. "I shouldn't."
However dark, Rory's disappointment didn't escape his gaze.
"When did you get responsible," he ran the pad of his thumb over her cheek. It was a gesture that–if done to him–would have caused him to blanch and pull away. But Rory eased into the feeling of his hand on her face, touching her skin.
"Hey," he tapped on a sensitive spot on her lower back; an area that he knew almost instinctively from years prior. "Let me take you out sometime. Come to dinner with me. You'll have fun, I promise."
He didn't ask, she noticed. A tinny part of her leaped and settled.
She brought her hand up to cover his own. Looking up, she asked, "When?"
"Tuesday. Seven o'clock on Tuesday night. If you'll be back by then."
She smiled; a small, genuine, rosy smile. "Alright."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
--
Rory stood in front of her closet, bathrobe wrapped around her shoulders and synched at the waist. After nearly fifteen minutes of hopelessly deliberating she sighed in defeat, retreating to the night stand to make a desperate phone call.
"Mom, what do I wear?"
Far across the Atlantic ocean, on her honeymoon, Lorelai responded to the call of her daughter.
"Well hello to you, too." The older woman replied from her hotel room in Spain.
"I'm sorry, how's the honeymoon going? Did I interrupt a potentially intimate moment?"
"Actually, it's fairly early here. Luke is still asleep, if you can believe it."
"No details, please. Spare me."
"You're spared. Now, what is this clothing crisis you speak of?" Lorelai paused to take a sip from her coffee mug while Rory formulated a linear explanation for her current dilemma.
Frank but declarative seemed to be the simplest tactic. She licked her lips absently and began to speak. "I'm going out with Jess tonight, to dinner, and I don't have any idea what to wear."
With thousands of miles between them, Rory could still hear the thunderously triumphant smirk that was undoubtedly spreading across her mother's face.
"You're going on a date, huh? Mind telling me a bit more here, I'm practically starving for information."
Rory lay with her back flat on the mattress, phone held between her cheek and her hand lazily. "He gave me a ride home after the wedding reception, and he asked me out. It wasn't a big thing. He called again on Monday to see if I was still ok to go–and now I have twenty minutes to decide what to wear." She finished, exasperated.
"Well, what do you think Jess will be wearing?" Lorelai asked, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.
"Something smart," Rory mocked. "What does that matter?"
"Sometimes it's better to try to match your wardrobe with whatever you think your date will be wearing."
"I'm am not Mrs. Cleo, ok, I can't predict–"
"The yellow skirt."
"What?"
"Go with the yellow mini-skirt. And your black sweater. And those boots that are technically mine but are in your possession."
"And black rights," Rory added, quickly throwing on the described outfit.
"Where do you think he'll take you?" Her mother asked in a girlie manner.
"You're really enjoying this, aren't you?" Rory mumbled, zipping up her shoe.
"It's so cute," she teased. "You like Jess, ha, ha." Lorelai taunted.
"Stop it," Rory reprimanded, still somewhat playful. The older of the two women obliged.
"Serious question," Rory asked.
"Shoot."
"How may dates did you and Luke go on before you guys . . . " she trailed off.
"Before we what?" Lorelai questioned, distracted.
"Before you had sex," Rory clarified.
"Oh."
"Yeah, oh."
"Rory," her mother started, contemplating the best way to phrase what she was about to say.
"Yes?'
"Do you want to have sex with Jess?" She tried to say it as nonchalantly as possible, a difficult task for a mother with overwhelming humor-based tendencies.
"If I didn't I wouldn't be going out with him," Rory soberly answered, running a brush through her dark hair.
"All I'm going to say," her mother broke her words down clearly, "is, do what you want to do. You're twenty-four, you're mature enough to handle the consequences of your decisions–and if that includes giving yourself a little more time then ok, you don't have to have sex after your first date."
"And this conversation has become epically awkward," Rory sighed, running a lint roller over her clothes.
"Yeah, eh, ick." Lorelai frowned.
"Goodbye mom."
"You know, you don't have to hang up on me, I'm sure we could work something out that doesn't make us both cringe–"
"Bye!" Rory said cheerfully, turning off the phone.
--
"Where are you taking me? To one of those art-house movie theaters, or a coffee house with bad interpretive poetry? Downtown? Midtown? Or are we really going bohemian with you dragging me to some Spartan-esque studio apartment in the East Village with typewriters everywhere and a saxophone player on he corner–"
"Well aren't we full of double entendre's this evening."
Rory giggled at Jess's suggestive comment laced with literary satire. He smirked.
"Actually, I'm taking you to dinner, you art snob. And maybe then we can go meet a saxophone player."
"Deal."
--
The waitress took away their then-empty bowls that had formally held French onion soup, but Rory and Jess didn't miss a beat in their conversation.
"So you're saying that she was a device? That her death was a tool to show the protagonists struggle in identifying actual love in his life?" Jess asked, spearing a circular piece of kielbasa.
"Not necessarily. I think the fact that Nell was dead gave her sympathy she wouldn't have otherwise received."
"You think her character was unsympathetic because she was a stripper?" He tried to clarify.
"Partly," Rory cleared her throat. "Novels usually follow the line where if you do something that's 'wrong' or 'abnormal' you end up paying for it. Like, if one thing goes wrong you begin this Odyssey through Hell where the girl deserves what happens to her because she went against her family or her religion." She took a breath.
Jess fingered the edge of his fork, brushing the handle. "You're right, to a degree. A lot of American writers fall into that trap. It's like, if you don't live the American Dream you become a failure, you loose complete control of your life. But I don't think Nell's character is an example of that. It doesn't seem like something Pen Jillet would do in his first novel."
Rory's eyes began to drift about the restaurant, taking in the dark woods and jewel tones, warm lighting, what Mr. Medina would have referred to as a 'novel setting.' Intelligent but not tedious; she could imagine Jess, darkly stylish and full of incite, fitting in smoothly in the back corners of New York City. It had been difficult to imagine him as part of a scene or a group when they had both lived in Stars Hollow. He had been alienated by its normalcy, it's open-armed small town sweetness. But here, now, dining around musicians and critics and native New Yorkers, he seemed to fit. She could see it in his knowing, almost lazy smile: relaxation, environmental equilibrium, confidence.
They finished dinner shortly after their dissection of Sock, something that Rory had picked up out of curiosity and Jess had sought out purposefully (he had a deep-rooted interest in magicians).
She held her white coat snugly around herself as a shield against the early November chill. It was cool for fall, more so than usual. Jess walked close beside her, shortening his strides slightly to accommodate her slower pace.
"Should we be walking around here at night like this?" Rory said in reference to their stroll through Washington Square Park.
He rolled his eyes at her concern. "About the only people who'll bother us are the Drag Queens, and they won't be out for another couple of hours. That lot tends to hang out later than most."
She smiled into her shoulder as he held his arm around her waist, pressing the length of their bodies a little closer.
"How long have you been here, in New York?"
"Recently, as in now?"
"Yeah," she tilted her head a little towards his, cheeks very close to touching.
"Since June. I've worked like a maniac for the past five months."
"Poor boy," Rory took the hand that wasn't around her waist into her own, entwining their fingers.
"So, when exactly did you move here? The last bit of news I recall hearing about you was that you were traipsing around the country. "
She blushed. "I was. For about a year, actually. It was for Barack Obama's campaign. I got a job with an internet news site. I guess I kind of wandered into the city sometime around September."
He nodded. "Bet you loved that."
"Then, yes. Now it's just a bit harder."
"Don't worry, you'll find your niche."
"It's good to hear that you have total faith in me."
"What else is there? You, Nick's off-base dream analysis, and the Democratic Party. I don't need anything else."
She chuckled, laughing in a girlish way. Biting her lips to keep off the chill, Rory didn't fail to notice the gradual decline in the speed of their walk. The park was surprisingly deserted for ten o'clock, but, then again, it was a Tuesday evening.
Their walking came to a stop. "Did you ever think this would happen Rory?"
"What do you mean?"
"This. Us. All of it, but real this time."
"I don't know."
They were holding hands, ivory and olive mixing just beyond the outer rim of the streetlight.
"I never let myself think about it." Jess confessed. "I didn't want to build up any false ideals about our relationship. If you could have called it that."
She nodded. "I guess I approached the situation like an equation. Like arithmetic. I didn't realize until later that what I was dealing with was more similar to algebra."
He shook his head knowingly. "Figures. Logic turned out to be your enemy. Talk about a tragic flaw."
Pointedly, she felt the edge of his nail drag across her wrist, running along the length of her palm. She fought the urge to move, letting the tension in her hands dissipate. Moving from her arms to her shoulders, to her neck and spine. A pressing warmth tugged on something in her lower stomach.
She leaned into the shape of his body; his mouth pressed against the shell of her ear. "You ready?"
"For what?"
"This." He said simply.
He kissed her, really kissed her. It was one of those breathless deals where she just couldn't get close enough, couldn't make enough contact. And for one, blinding second she forgot how to move, how to kiss. The second passed quickly. His hands had tangled in her hair, arms around her, his tongue coaxing heat out of her mouth. With her body firmly planted against his she became aware of the physical changes she was feeling. The tension in her knees lessened while her breasts felt overly sensitive through multiple layers of clothing. She could only open her mouth–willing, her senses flooded–and run her palm across his jaw, curling over his ears and brushing against the soft, fine hairs where his haircut tapered off.
She arched up into him, strung out, soft and weak while he made shallow plays on her lips. Jess would kiss her teasingly, slipping into her mouth quickly just to repeat the action. He stroked her hair, pulling away but still holding her. He twirled a lock of her chestnut hair around his pale fingers, smiling.
"You wanna come home with me?" He asked gently, nuzzling her neck.
She bit her lip. "Maybe not tonight," she rested her hand against the flat plane of his chest.
"Want me to walk you home?" He nipped her ear playfully in encouragement.
Blushing, she asked, "Are you sure that's a good idea? I might forget the part about the actual walking."
"Oh yes, definitely. Wouldn't want to turn a pretty-little girl like you loose on the town with all the crazies out."
"Drag Queens looking pretty scary, huh?" She joked.
Jess feigned innocent seriousness, "Terrifying."
--
Cold sunlight filled Rory's living room, her coffee pot gurgling cheerfully in the kitchen. She was sprawled out on the couch, her cell phone held to her ear sleepily.
"Mom, it's seven in the morning," she yawned, adjusting her blankets.
"Not in Spain," Lorelai replied.
"Yeah," Rory grumbled. "In Spain it's seven at night. Shouldn't you be eating dinner or something?"
"And shouldn't you be too exhausted to answer the phone?" Her mother pressed.
"No."
"No? What is the reasoning behind the no?"
"It was one date."
"Meaning?" Her mother asked.
Squishing deeper into the pillows, Rory answered. "Meaning I wasn't absolutely sure that having sex would enhance the evening."
"Hm, well, you sounded pretty sure yesterday. "
Rory frowned. "I don't remember that."
Lorelai blanched at her own fib. "You're right. You were very much on the fence about the whole thing. But, personally, I thought you were going to do it anyway."
"We kissed," she tried to make her tone sound neutral, but the blush pooled through her cheeks. Rory was enormously grateful that her mother couldn't see her.
"Aww," Lorelai cooed. "That's so cute."
"And the mocking commences," Rory said darkly. "Again, I ask, shouldn't you be eating dinner or something?"
"No, I'm busy prying into your love life. Tell me, how did Jess react to the non-sex you were both having?"
"He walked me home. And we kissed some more. And then I went to bed."
"Do you know when you'll see him again?"
Rory made her way to the kitchen to pour herself a cup of coffee. "This afternoon, I think. He wants to show me around his bookstore before the opening on Friday."
"That's soon." Her mother commented.
"Two days is too long." Rory said between gulps of coffee. "I'd start to get all nervous and I'd overanalyze things, you know how I get."
Lorelai made a sound of agreement. "You do tend to overanalyze things."
Frowning, Rory changed the subject. "How's Luke?"
"Frustrated. Neither one of us speaks any Spanish. It creates a lot of awkwardly hilarious situations."
"Well I would love to hear about it but I have to meet my editor in an hour-and-a-half. I need to get ready."
"Go be a newspaper girl. Just brush me off on my honeymoon."
"Luckily you have Luke to occupy your time. Go get laid."
"See what a sweet little girl I have? She always looks out for her mommy, even when she's not 'getting any' as Jess would say–"
"Goodbye mom."
--
The stairway was dark, the kind of old-fashioned back entrance that had been put in 20's business and apartment buildings, boarding houses. He'd told her where to find the key (inside the loose brick with the white stripe down the front) and that maybe she'd run into Nick–his best friend and business partner–but he would be expecting her around five.
Five. Late enough for the sun to begin it's slow crawl bellow the horizon, but early enough so she wouldn't have to stay–was it still too soon?
Her mind was a pool of images, one of those frozen mountain streams that glossed over in the winter; pearly, delicate, silver and frosted with snow. She was getting flashes of Dottie and Dick, Mrs. Bennett and Mr. Darcy, Catherine and Heathfliff.
What was it in her that longed to be owned? To be carried and lain down, her fingers and arms like curled pieces of parchment, reaching, being carefully smoothed down by wise hands.
The sound of her heels on the muffled stairwell, one of those therebare carpet runners down it's center, dark woods–real mahogany molding–all of it swelling together in a whirl of rich eggplant. Tinted violette. Ripples of gold lighting from the occasional uncovered window.
And there it was, the lefthand door on the third floor. Solid wood. A few steps down from Nick's apartment on the right.
All it took was just a knock on the door, one of those simple acts that would push the plot of their novella forward. The character goes through the door, the action commences. Face to face. Parry, thrust, touche.
She saw her hand go out in front of her, saw it make contact with the sanded wood surface, felt her crazy self smiling.
A wave of warmth surged through her veins, the key turned on the other side.
--
A/N: Can you feel the tension? I want to know what you guys think of this chapter. Please leave a review.