A/N:

I don't own the characters, I just play with them. No copyright infringement intended.

Thank you all for reading, and a special thanks to those who take the time to review :D

09. Of Kisses, Chemistry and Cripples

"Okay, so what's with the face?" Luke finally caves in after two days of dodging the stone expression and increased hostility.

"Gee, I'm glad you mentioned that, I was worried I'd hurt your feelings if I brought it up," Jess draws out, then takes White Riot down a notch and peers up at Luke from the bed. "I don't really know, but I think your nose might be the main issue. It's kind of crooked," he frowns in contemplation.

Luke stares at him, speechless for a moment, then brushes the comment aside and shakes his head. "No, not my face, genius," he says pointedly. "Your face. You know, this moping, sullen expression you've adopted lately. I've seen those on Mexican soap-operas, you should think about auditioning."

Jess rolls his eyes, and returns to staring at the ceiling. Luke pulls a chair next to his bed and straddles it.

"Oh, yeah, and the silent staring into space bit," Luke nods appreciatively. "Another fascinating development. You know, yesterday, once I was done with the desk and the sideboard, I had this weird compulsion to dust you off and give you a good polish. I just barely caught myself. This chair I'm sitting on has moved more than you in the last two days."

Jess cranks up the volume again. Luke leans over and unplugs the stereo. Jess gives him a murderous look, jumps up from the bed, grabs his jacket and marches out of the apartment, door slamming behind him.

"Oh good, you still know how to walk," Luke yells after him, shaking his head.

The words follow Jess down the stairs, chasing him out into the dark street, and even when he's out of earshot, they still echo in his head. Luke's right, of course – he really has been in a foul mood. The fact that Luke noticed this does little to improve his general disposition; he had no idea he'd advertised it for the whole world to see. By some small mercy, though, the whole world doesn't include Rory – apparently, she's been giving the diner a wide berth for as long as he'd been wearing this - how did Luke put it? Sullen expression? Sullen?... Even the word sounds idiotic. He shakes his head and cuts through the park.

He hasn't seen her since the Kiss, and even though the word shouldn't be capitalized in this context, it shows up such in his head, generously adding another item to a fast-growing list of annoyances. This is not what was supposed to happen, that Kiss was not supposed to be one that deserves capitalization, or any other form of distinction from all other kisses in his life. It wasn't supposed to instill this bizarre craving for more; if anything, it was supposed to satisfy curiosity and get this ridiculous fascination with her out of his system. Well, the best laid plans, he thinks grudgingly and kicks a stray stone off the bridge.

He doesn't want to see her, he concludes with surprising certainty as he emerges from the park; in fact, it would be ideal if she just vanished from town altogether until he clears his head and gets rid of this definitely unexpected and absolutely unwelcome mess of feelings that has sprouted into existence with that Kiss. She wasn't supposed to kiss like that, this sweet and naive girl definitely wasn't supposed to make his toes curl and heart race, she wasn't supposed to feel so good and send those blazing little jolts rushing under his skin. Well, some of it was there before the Kiss, his mind offers innocently and obligingly follows up with a flashback of the hair-smelling incident. He kicks another stone and walks faster.

Jesus, I so don't need this right now, he thinks for a hundredth time since Saturday morning, reverently cursing the ingenious bank robbery idea, remembering again with exquisite irony that it was his own brainchild that landed him in this particular mess. If he hadn't set up the stage, there would have been no Kiss, and consequently, no mess… well, at least no mess of this scale. Undo-button, what a brilliant idea… Well, you might have provided the opening, but she's actually the one who stepped through, his mind sounds again, and this time, the insight throws him off-balance on two levels – first, it surprisingly voices a perspective that is actually welcome, and two – said perspective has merit, because that Kiss – it was actually all her. He was really just there to drop off a bag.

The fact that it took him two whole days to figure this out makes him seriously question his intelligence for a moment; even Luke would have connected the dots on this one sooner, he thinks absently as he rounds a random corner. However, the powers that be have apparently been having a somewhat dull evening and to ensure some light entertainment, have chosen to have Rory round the same corner from the opposite direction in this particular moment in time. Predictably, a monumental crash ensues, scattering a thick stack of notes all over the pavement, closely followed by somewhat incoherent yet decidedly angry yelps which abruptly subside into a moment of awkward silence when both unsuspecting victims find their bearings again and look up into the person they're sure they least want to see.

"Oh," says Rory.

"Huh," says Jess.

Her face drains of color; his eyebrows knit together. The silence gets louder and more awkward.

"Hi," she finally finds the appropriate word, but also finds this is as far as her vocabulary stretches at this particular moment. It might be due to the temporary brain-freeze, or simple physical inability to get any words past the heart that is suddenly firmly lodged in her throat.

"Hey," he nods, abruptly remembering the sullen expression and wondering if it's still there; a swift self-search reveals a frown and he gets rid of it in a rush.

Another seemingly endless beat of silence; the wind mercifully ends it when it playfully sends a few scattered papers softly into the air and down the street. The reality check is a god-send, and they both give into the paper chasing with almost religious dedication. The number of papers is finite, however, and soon they're facing each other again, slightly breathless for the effort, but somewhat less discombobulated, having stolen a few minutes to adjust to the sudden shift in energy around them.

"What's all this, anyway?" Jess asks as he hands her his stack; they're both painfully careful to stay at their respective ends of the papers as they change hands.

"Chemistry," Rory says, straining to shove the paper mass back into the binder.

"How fitting," he mutters to himself, smirking, then quickly moves on. "Why are you walking an encyclopedia of chemistry notes around town at ten o'clock at night?"

"I was at Lane's, she needed some help for school," she explains and releases a sigh of relief when the binder finally closes. "You?"

"Just… roaming," he shrugs.

She looks around. "And this is where you choose to roam?"

"I don't think you understand the concept," he smirks. "There's really no conscious choice or decision making involved in the process."

"Right, my mistake," she smiles, and is amazed that it comes so easy.

He smirks, and debates the next question for a second, but ultimately decides it's not a breach of contract. "So, it's been a while. Where have you been hiding all weekend?"

"Oh, I've just been… busy," she shrugs, deciding to ignore the implications of the 'hiding' bit.

"With Dean?" he inquires casually.

"No, school," she replies, matching his tone. "Dean's in Chicago for another week."

Jess makes no comment, but makes a mental note of this piece of information, and slowly starts down the street. Another mental note goes to the fact that she changes her pre-crash direction and follows.

"Why are you so interested in Dean, anyway?" she challenges after a few steps, glancing sideways.

"Oh you know, I miss his big head in class. It blocks out the teacher," he smirks. "He also packs one mean bag of groceries, and I happen to like my cans stacked just so."

She rolls her eyes. "Fine, don't answer me."

"I did answer you," he smirks wider.

She shakes her head. "No, you didn't. You evaded the answer and fed me a line of crap instead."

"So I lied?" he lifts his eyebrows.

"Well, you fibbed, if nothing else," she shrugs with a small smile.

"Okay, so then you think there's a different answer to your question that I'm not giving you?" he challenges casually.

"Yeah, pretty much, but then again, that's true for most your answers," she chuckles.

"Okay, fine," he shrugs. "What is it?"

"What's what?" she asks, suddenly squirming.

"This answer I'm not giving you," he smirks. "What is it you think I'm not saying?"

She'd waltzed straight into this one, and maneuvering out of it now poses a significant challenge. "How should I know?" she shrugs, aiming for a disinterested tone.

"You must have some alternative in mind, since you've apparently decided I was… fibbing, was it?" he chuckles.

"Well, I actually don't," she quips swiftly.

He smirks. "You don't," he repeats, "but you do know I was fibbing?"

She rolls her eyes. "Whatever. Just forget it."

"Oh no," he laughs, shaking his head. "You can't un-ring that bell. That wasn't part of the deal."

She skips a breath at the deal reference, and suddenly feels the imprint his hand left on her back so vividly that it's almost like it's there again, all the vicious heat included. "How about you just tell me what you want to hear, so we can get this over with?" she asks exasperatedly, and casually steps sideways, putting some more distance between them.

"I'll go for the truth," he smirks, "or you know, your version of it."

"Fine. My version of the truth is simply that I find it hard to believe that you miss either my boyfriend's head or his grocery packing abilities," she cuts off ironically, "but as far as your potential ulterior motives go, I really haven't given them any thought."

"Ouch," he cringes, "that left a bruise."

"Sorry," she shrugs.

"No, you're not," he smirks.

"Yeah, I'm not," she smiles despite herself. "But you had it coming. Somehow, even the simplest conversation with you instantly turns into a battle, so there's bound to be casualties."

"Well, sparks are definitely flying," he chuckles in agreement, and lifts his eyebrows over an innocent expression at the reproachful look she throws him. "What? It's just chemistry," he points out casually, determined to ignore the annoying new rhythm his heart switches to.

"You're delusional," she declares with conviction, painfully aware that the blush she feels creeping into her cheeks wildly contradicts the statement.

"Right, I'm the delusional one," he smirks, shaking his head, and leads into the park.

"Presumptuous too," she adds, following absently, wondering why it's so utterly impossible to fight this insane compulsion to find out where this conversation ends, even though she knows she'll probably regret it once they get to that point. Lost in her inner debate, she loses track of him for a moment, until she suddenly feels alone and turns back to find him sitting down on the bridge. "What are you doing?" she asks, bewildered.

"Okay, the answer to that is just too simple to take the question literally," he chuckles, searching for cigarettes, "so I'll ask for a minute until I figure out the deeper meaning."

She steps closer. "It's cold, you're insane."

"It's not that cold," he smirks, "but I'll let you have the insane bit."

"There are icicles hanging off roofs," she points out ironically. "That constitutes cold."

"Well, there's no icicles here," he shrugs, nodding towards the bridge. "Will you just sit? If I keep craning my head like this, my neck will spasm, and a massage from Luke is really not an appealing prospect."

"I'm not sitting on the ground in the middle of winter," she declines categorically.

"That binder is so thick it's practically a chair in its own right," he points out reasonably. "I'm sure it won't mind if you temporarily re-classify it."

She holds the binder closer to her chest. "Or, I could take it home and sit on an actual chair in my lovely, heated house."

"You could," he smirks, "but where's the fun in that?"

Just roll your eyes and walk away, her mind instructs rationally -come on, one eye-roll, it's not that hard - but it quickly becomes apparent that there's a different force in control of her body because she finds herself settling on top of the binder anyway while the oh-so reasonable and distinctly opposite course of action still floats around her head. On his part, Jess makes a Herculean effort to withhold a gigantic grin, but the brief excursion into self-satisfaction ends abruptly when the soft light reflecting off the water casts a subtle glow on her face. Suddenly, he's silently wondering what would happen if he kissed her again, would there be the same chaos of senses, the same subtle combination of sincerity and fervor in her that has had him replaying the scene in his head all weekend, the same unique thrill that can't really compare to anything he's felt before. Would it be the same Kiss? Jesus, I have to stop capitalizing the stupid thing, he mentally kicks himself and tries to remember what they were talking about before the whole sitting down process began.

"Anyway, I think perceptive is the word you were looking for," he says through a half-smile; she frowns at him, confused. "As opposed to presumptuous," he points out helpfully, and lights a cigarette.

A quick mental replay – sparks flying, chemistry thing – and she's back on track. "Oh no, I'm sticking with presumptuous," she reiterates with conviction. "As in, you're presuming something that's actually not present."

"Really," he grins freely this time, almost giddy with anticipation. "Like what?"

"Well, chemistry," she delivers victoriously, unable to hold back a smug look, inwardly reveling in this unexpected little victory; he'd said the word, and for a change, it's her turn to watch him squirm.

"Oh, but there is chemistry," he chuckles, no indication of squirming whatsoever; she frowns, and he grins again, and makes the smallest nod toward the ground. "I mean, you're sitting on a binder-full, aren't you?"

Her face blanks and her eyes widen; the unmistakable tinge of red spreads across her cheeks as she looks down and hides her face behind a curtain of hair. Simultaneously, the weirdest thing happens to the always cool and aloof New York cynic – he gets no satisfaction out of any of it. Instead, there's a distinct feeling of guilt, a strange sense he'd stolen something from her, and an intense compulsion to apologize for it, all mentioned being new and previously not experienced emotions he hasn't the vaguest idea what to do with. Guilt is something that used to be easily dismissed, stealing was just for fun, and apologies he usually choked on even while they were still on the mental level, not to mention actually getting them out. The habitual response to successfully embarrassing someone has always been laughing at them, not wanting to cradle them and apologize, maybe kiss the top of their head…

Instinctively, he reaches out and tucks her hair behind her ear, revealing her face; the blush is gone but she looks at him with a trace of panic in her eyes.

"Luke says I'm an emotional cripple," he says reluctantly, pushing the rest of the hair over her shoulder.

"Yeah, so I heard," she nods solemnly.

He shrugs. "I guess it's…"

"…a New York thing?" she offers helpfully, biting back a smile at the most uneasy and inept attempt at an apology she's ever witnessed.

He nods, relieved. "I might grow out of it," he smirks, shrugging again.

"Maybe," she lets the smile out this time, "but I won't hold my breath."

He grins, shaking his head, and lights another cigarette.

A/N:

All writers love reviews, good or bad. They are precious insights into our reader's minds. They usually make us try harder. They often make us get better at what we do. They always motivate us to keep going. They show us what we've done well, what we've done badly and what we could have done differently. Ultimately, they make us happy.
Just something to think about :)