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
10. The Fountainhead
The couch is comfortable but he barely gets any sleep at all; the fact that she's just a few steps away, sleeping in his bed, proves too tempting for his imagination, and he tosses and turns, going back and forth betwwen indulging in all kinds of steamy scenarios and trying to evict them from his head. When he finally does fall asleep, dreams bring more of the same, but dreams he has no control over and when he opens his eyes in the morning, he still remembers them vividly. He looks at the clock, and it's early; he cranes his neck and peers through the bookshelf – she appears to be asleep but he wraps himself in a blanket nonetheless as he sneaks into the bathroom. The shower takes fifteen minutes and he emerges from it with a slightly better hold over himself and his hormones. Somewhat hungry and needing to work off some of the tension, he grabs his keys and goes on a bagel run. He makes a short detour into the drugstore but still returns to the apartment within ten minutes. She's still asleep; he makes coffee and sets out for the terrace, fighting the temptation to just sit at the desk and watch her sprawled in his bed. He manages to rise to the challenge and walks past the desk, but can't help turning at the door for a moment and making a mental image of the scene. After all, there's no guarantee he'll ever see it again.
Rory wakes up to the sun on her face; with her eyes still closed, she feels around for a pillow and when she finds one, she throws it over her head to block the light out. She feels lazy and warm and comfortable and completely unwilling to open her eyes or get up at all. She takes a deep breath and the scent that it brings suddenly wakes her up completely – it's cigarettes and aftershave and something indiscernible but familiar and tantalizing, and it makes her breath catch and her skin bristle. It 's his smell and she's in his bed, and her heart races as she pushes the pillow of her head and opens her eyes slowly, half-hoping she'll find him next to her and at the same time, half-scared of it too. She doesn't, and instead, she breathes the scent in again and runs her hand over the pillow next to her. It's cold and this saddens her. She thinks back to the night before; the memory unfolds slowly and she remembers lying on the couch, but doesn't recall the bed or how she ended up in it.
The apartment is quiet and she wonders where he is as she gets up and walks down into the living-room. The pillow and the blanket on the couch tell her where he slept, and warmth spreads inside her at the thought he let her have the bed, immediately followed by a pang of regret at the fact that she was in it alone. She wanders into the kitchen and finds fresh coffee there and her mood picks up a little; she finds a mug and fills it quickly. She looks around for him again, but doesn't see him until her eyes travel over to the window and she squints into the sun, barely discerning a silhouette in a chair outside. She takes her mug and walks over, finding a door she didn't notice before; she pushes it open and steps outside.
He's sitting in his favorite chair, coffee in one hand and cigarette in the other, with a brown paper bag in his lap. He smiles when he notices her and sets his mug on the floor, lifting the bag towards her. "Bagel?"
She smiles and shakes her head. "No. Chewing seems like a lot of hard work right now."
He smirks. "Have a seat," he says, nodding to the bench and the pillows next to him.
She walks around the chair and sits down, fighting a yawn.
"How did you sleep?" he asks, finding his coffee again.
"Great," she smiles lazily. "You have a very nice bed. I'm sure you missed it last night."
He laughs. "Yeah, a little."
"It's big enough for both of us," she says quietly and takes a sip of coffee before she looks at him and smiles. "I wouldn't have kicked you out."
His heart skips a beat and his blood surges faster, but he hides it well. "Yeah, I suppose not, seeing as you were unconscious and all," he smirks at her.
"Yeah, I was actually wondering how I ended up there, unconscious and all. Can you shed some light on that?" she asks innocently.
The smirk widens and he shakes his head. "It was amazing. A flock of birds flew in and carried you over there. It was like a scene from Snow-white or something."
She smiles. "Birds, huh? And I hoped there was a prince involved," she says regretfully. "Or I could have just been sleepwalking again."
"More like sleep-talking, actually," he chuckles but looks at her carefully, trying to figure out if she remembers the mumbling at all.
The surprise on her face is genuine. "I talked?"
He smiles. "It was more of a slightly incoherent mumble," he explains.
"What did I say?"
She looks alarmed and he just shrugs. "Nothing important."
"I didn't mention Al Gore, did I?" she asks apprehensively.
He bursts out laughing. "Al Gore? That's who you dream about?" He shakes his head. "You're hilarious. I'd give anything to crawl inside your head for a day. Al Gore?"
"It's not funny," she frowns but can't help a smile. "I saw that documentary of his on global warming a few months ago. It gave me nightmares for weeks."
He's still laughing and she kicks him. "And as far as crawling into my head goes, you're nowhere near qualified to deal with the mess in there, so be grateful you don't have to," she adds, laughing, and returns to her coffee.
"Al Gore…" he repeats incredulously.
"Drop it, right now," she warns, "before I revisit the plants."
He's still chuckling but he doesn't mention Gore again, he just watches her sip her coffee and gaze out at the city. Her hair is tousled and there are sleep wrinkles on her face, and the whole she-just-crawled-out-of-bed look just makes him want to take her right back to said bed and do things that will make her flush and whimper and scream. His mind runs away from him completely and he wonders what kinds of sounds she makes and what her face looks like in those moments; the daydream gets out of hand quickly and his blood surges in a very definite direction. He snaps out of it violently at the feeling and quickly looks for a mental equivalent of a cold shower. For some unknown reason, Dean comes to mind and it works perfectly, although he hates being grateful to the guy for anything. He settles down and takes a huge gulp of coffee, wondering if he'd be less crazed now if he had actually slept with her at some point. Probably not. He'd kissed her before and that somehow doesn't make the desire to do it again any lesser. He might be less crazed if there had been any sex in the last few months; there hasn't, and this self-imposed abstinence coupled with her reappearance is clearly beginning to take its toll.
"Wow, you should see your face right now," she laughs suddenly. "You look like Superman faced with kryptonite… and now I want to crawl inside your head," she adds playfully. "I don't even need a whole day in there, I'd make do with just a few minutes."
The kryptonite reference is dead-on, but he shakes it off and hides behind the smirk. "You'd run away screaming, trust me," he warns and quickly moves on into safer territory. "So, you want to go check out that Book Market you missed last weekend?"
She smiles. "Sure, that'd be great. When?"
"After you're done with that," he points to her coffee.
"Right now?" she asks, surprised.
"There's no time like the present," he declares with conviction.
She laughs. "Toilet paper or fortune cookie?"
"I don't know, I don't keep track," he smirks. "What's wrong with right now?"
She shrugs and smiles. "Nothing, really, except the fact I slept in these clothes and it would be like going out into the world in my pajamas."
He laughs. "You have a jacket and even if you didn't, trust me, no one would care if you did wear pajamas."
She frowns. "Okay, but I want a shower and I need to brush my teeth. That's non-negotiable," she says with determination.
The smirk is back and he digs inside his jacket that's sitting on the bench next to her; after a moment, he produces a toothbrush and hands it to her.
She takes it, bewildered. "You always have a fresh toothbrush in your jacket?"
He laughs. "No. Why on earth would I do that?"
She shrugs. "I don't know, to be prepared?"
"Prepared for what? A surprise caries attack?" he laughs again.
"No," she says pointedly. "I was thinking more along the lines of when you go out, hoping you'll get lucky." She waves the toothbrush in front of his face. "This thing can come in handy the morning after." She hates the very idea and kicks herself mentally for voicing it at all.
"I don't plan that far ahead, and I rarely stick around for the morning after," he says simply and watches the shadow retreat from her face. He's glad to see it go but also happy that it appeared in the first place.
There's a moment of silence as she debates whether or not to ask the question that runs around her head. The answer might hurt and that scares her; there might not even be an answer and somehow, that scares her even more, but in a weird slightly masochistic way, she wants to know.
"How come?" she finally asks, bracing herself. "How come you don't stick around?"
The answer comes, and it comes right away, and he looks her straight in the eyes when he delivers it. "Because it never means anything."
She swallows, unsure what to think. "Then what's the point?" she asks in a small voice.
"You mean, aside from the obvious?" He shrugs. "There isn't one. It's pretty much like scratching an itch."
"Wow, that's…cold," she says quietly.
He looks away from her and lights another cigarette. "Truth usually is," he says simply.
She plays with the toothbrush, suddenly sorry she asked, less because of what she learned and more because of the dark expression that settles on his face as he looks at the city that wakes up in front of them. The darkness tells her not to push the issue, and she doesn't want to dig deeper anyway, sensing she won't like what she finds and afraid it will somehow lead back to her and another one of those mistakes she faced a week ago.
"So, what do I do with this toothbrush?" she asks quietly, with a little smile.
He raises his eyebrows. "You graduated Yale and you need instructions for that?", he chuckles. "Wow, those Ivy League schools are clearly not everything they're cracked up to be."
She rolls her eyes. "Funny. What I meant was, what do I do with it after I brush my teeth?"
He understands the question now and he smirks. "I don't know, you tackle that one."
"Well, I already have one at home," she says casually.
The smirk is still there. "Maybe have that one with you in your bag then. Might come in handy when you eat at work or something," he suggests casually.
She shakes her head. "I have one at work too," she points out.
"Okay, I guess you'll just have to leave it here than," he shrugs, chuckling slightly.
She smiles. "I'll just be a few minutes," she promises as she gets up and starts for the door.
"There's towels in the cupboard," he calls after her, smiling to himself; he puts the cigarette out and eats another bagel before he gets up and takes the mug into the kitchen. The dishes from last night are piled next to the sink and he decides to wash them. He turns the faucet to hot, and within seconds, he hears her screeching from the bathroom; he turns the water off quickly, suddenly realizing he just gave her a cold shower.
"Sorry!" he yells towards the bathroom, but can't help laughing.
"Yeah, I bet you are," she yells back and he laughs harder.
He grabs a book and settles on the couch. Rory emerges from the bathroom ten minutes later; the sleep wrinkles are gone and somehow, he misses them. Her eyes are bright and she's holding her hair up on top of her head.
"Thanks for that," she says, nodding to the bathroom. "Did wonders for my circulation."
"I'm sorry," he laughs. "I totally forgot about that little hot water quirk. There's not enough pressure to keep both faucets going."
"Yes, I'll make a mental note of that for when you're in there," she quips, looking around the room. "I can't find my hair thingy," she complains as she moves the pillows on the couch.
"It's over there, next to the bed," he says with a smirk.
She smiles. "Very thoughtful, those birds," she says as she walks up the stairs. "Took off my hair-clip out and everything." She disappears behind the shelf. "They might have as well taken my clothes off, at least I wouldn't be going out all wrinkled today," she challenges with a smirk of her own when she reappears.
He swallows against the image that invades his head. "I'll make sure to tell them that next time," he mutters quietly and keeps his eyes firmly planted in the book as he wills the picture away.
She laughs and finds her boots; she pulls them on as he gets up from the couch and hands her jacket before he grabs his own. "You ready?" he asks; she nods, and he opens the door. On their way down, she digs through her bag in search of her sunglasses; they prove elusive and as they step out into the street, she hands him a notebook, her wallet and a book before she finally finds them.
"Do you have lunch in there too?" he smirks as he hands her things back one by one.
"Hey, I need all of this stuff, okay?" she says defensively.
"I'm sure you do, but there's probably enough in there to get you through a nuclear meltdown," he smirks.
She rolls her eyes. "You're a guy and therefore unqualified to understand or discuss the subject of women's bags," she says simply and looks around. "How far is this Book Market?"
"Around that corner, and down that street," he points ahead of them.
"Everything is around a corner from your building," she says. "I'm jealous."
He laughs. "You should be. I live in the best part of this whole city."
She spots a pastry shop when they turn the corner he mentioned and stops for a danish; she finishes it by the time they reach the end of the street and a square packed with carts and makeshift shelves full of books. She stops and tries to take it all in, and he smiles at the way her mouth drops open.
"Oh my God, we'll be here all day," she squeals enthusiastically and takes a blind step into the street; he grabs her hand and pulls her back as a car drives by, then pulls her into a run before another one approaches. They stop as they reach the square and he turns towards her, immediately realizing something's wrong; her hands are crossed on her chest and she's rooted to the spot.
"What is it?" he frowns, checking out her face; it's hard to read behind the sunglasses and he takes them off her face. "Rory?"
"It's nothing," she shakes her head, blushing.
He smirks. "It's clearly not nothing, because a very big something is written all over your face."
She cringes. "We have to go back," she says in a breath.
His frowns again. "Back where?"
"Back to your place," she says quickly.
"Why?" he asks, confused.
She rolls her eyes. "I forgot something."
"What?"
She blushes again. "Just… something."
He smirks, crossing his hands on his chest and leans closer to her. "What, did you forget to put on underwear or something?" he asks in a hushed tone, grinning widely.
"No, not my underwear," she whines, closing her eyes. "My bra."
He was joking and what she says catches him completely off guard and it takes a moment to process the information, but even though his mind threatens to go on another vivid imagery binge, he manages to grasp that this is upsetting her and he clears his head quickly.
"We can go back if you want," he says gently. "But can I just point out a few things first?"
She looks at him and appreciates that he's choosing not to mock her about this, and she slowly nods her head.
"Okay," he smiles. "First of all, just relax – it's not like you're naked, even if you might feel like you are. Second, you're wearing a jacket, and bra or not, you won't be taking it off because we're outside. Third, no one can tell what you are or aren't missing under that jacket just by looking at you. Fourth, we can easily avoid any situations where you would have to take the jacket off, and just return to my place once we're done here. " He shrugs, still smiling. "That's it. But if you still want to, we can go back right now."
She relaxes a little and smiles; her hands drop from her chest and she pushes them into her pockets, looking at her feet. "You're right, I guess. It's not such a big deal," she says in a small voice. "I just… panicked," she laughs and looks at him again.
He smirks at her. "So, you want to go and look at some books?"
"Yeah," she nods, smiling. "That'd be great."
She starts walking towards the carts and he follows, thinking of the bra that hangs somewhere in his bathroom, amazed he didn't notice she wasn't wearing one when she came out of it. He must really be losing it.
They reach the carts and soon they're both lost in piles of books, occasionally looking up to smile at each other or craning their necks in an effort not to lose one another in the crowd. At one point, fifteen minutes pass before he sees her again, and he walks over to her slowly.
"Hey," he says and she looks up from a battered copy of Slaughterhouse-Five. "Do you have your phone with you? Just in case I lose you between all these pages."
"Yeah, I've got it. I thought of that a minute ago too," she says with a smile.
"Okay, then we're good," he smirks and wanders off to the next cart. He checks out the titles and moves on, doing the same thing but somehow his heart is not really in it today, his mind is elsewhere and it revolves around her exclusively. She's a pure joy to have around, being with her is easy and natural and he never feels cramped or crowded by her like he sometimes feels with other people. He never has to look for things to talk about with her and she can make him laugh like no one else can, but she can also break him in pieces more thoroughly than even he ever could, and he's very good at self destruction.
He finds a bench and sits down, getting ready again to try and reconcile these two opposing forces that crash inside him, each pulling in the opposite direction, even though he knows in advance he'll end up right where he started. He also knows he'll just keep ending up in the same place until he really accepts that any attempt at anything with her again necessarily comes with the a possibility he might get clobbered all over again too. Somehow, he just can't bring himself to accept that yet.
"Jess!"
It sounds like her and he cranes his neck, looking around. There's too many people and he can't figure out where her voice is coming from.
"Jess!"
Her voice is louder this time and sounds urgent; he gets up and stands on the bench, scanning the crowd, and he sees her head among twenty others, looking around for him.
"Rory!" he yells and she turns around, spotting him. He steps down from the bench and she runs to him, grabbing him by the shoulders.
"Oh…my …God," she pants, breathing heavily. "There's a guy… back there… Jess, he's got… and he has no idea… I mean, really… no idea…"
"Okay, this is going nowhere," he smirks and takes her hands of his shoulders, but keeps them in his. "Breathe," he warns.
"Breathe? I can't breathe!" she yells in frustration.
"You're about to hyper-ventilate," he points out with his eyebrows raised.
"I'm about… to have a heart… attack," she pants out and takes a breath, then another one.
He smirks. "Okay, now talk. The guy has what?"
Her eyes light up and nearly pop out of her head, and she squeezes his hands so tightly it shocks him there's so much strength in something so small. "The fountainhead," she blurts out, grinning widely.
He frowns. "Okay, not wanting to burst your bubble, but I'm pretty sure a lot of guys here have –"
"The first edition," she cuts him off, squealing. "He's got the first edition, Jess!"
The panting and the running and the squealing make sense now, and he smiles. "Well, did you get it?"
She shakes her head. "No, I couldn't, I've been running around looking for an ATM for the last twenty minutes, or a bank, or a liquor store to rob or something, but I can't find any, not one, anywhere, and –"
He laughs. "Okay, okay, take a breath, I've got money," he says calmly. "Let's go find this guy."
She turns around and pulls him after her as she navigates between the carts and unceremoniously elbows people out of the way. She stops after five minutes, a few steps away from their destination and leans towards him, whispering conspirationally. "That's the one."
"Okay, let's go get the book then," he whispers back, trying hard not to laugh at the secrecy. He pulls her towards the cart and she grabs the book instantly. "How much?" she asks breathlessly and looks at the vendor expectantly. He glances at the book and shakes his head. "Sorry, that one is already on hold for someone."
Her face sinks and she looks at the book. "On hold? No, come on, it can't be on hold," she says desperately.
The guy shrugs. "Well, it is, I'm sorry."
She shakes her head. "You have no idea how much I love this book. Please, please, let me have it," she says imploringly, holding the book to her chest.
"Hey, I'm sure there must be other copies around the market," the vendor says helpfully. "Look around, I'm sure you'll find one."
"No, but this one is special," she argues passionately.
The guy looks surprised. "Why? What's so special about this one?"
She gapes at him incredulously. "What? It's the –"
Jess suddenly figures out this guy has no idea what he's got on his hands and how much it's worth, and he steps on Rory's foot quickly and cuts her off.
"It's special to her because she used to have one just like it when she was little," he says quickly and rolls his eyes. "Women," he adds quietly, rolling his eyes.
The guy gives him an understanding look and goes back to Rory again. "Sorry, it's still on hold," he says flatly. She's still holding on to the book and he raises his eyebrows at her. "Can I have it back?"
She grips the book tighter and for a brief second, actually contemplates running for it, but Jess seems to sense this crazy impulse and grabs the back of her jacket. "Give the book back, Rory," he mumbles into her ear and she hates him for being so reasonable. She reluctantly hands the book over and turns away from the cart, frustrated to tears. Jess steers her further away, and she rounds on him as soon as their out of earshot.
"Why didn't you let me tell him it was the first edition? Whoever he's holding it for is probably paying him peanuts for it, and this guy obviously has no idea this book is worth a small fortune!"
He takes a breath. "Okay, first of all, stop yelling. Second, If you told him that, he would have asked for a small fortune, and we don't have a small fortune. Third, you're much too crazed about this book to either think clearly or act normally, so just go back to that bench you just dragged me here from and I'll go talk to him again."
She looks ashamed and she smiles apologetically. "You will? Can I just stay here and watch?"
He shakes his head. "No, you can't," he smiles. "You're a disaster waiting to happen. Now go."
"I won't move an inch from this spot, I promise," she tries again and he laughs.
"Neither will I, not until you're out of my sight," he shrugs, smiling. She throws him a dirty look but walks away anyway, certain he really won't move until she does what he says. She reaches the bench quickly and spends the longest ten minutes of her life pacing up and down in front of it, glancing at the crowd and waiting for him to appear. He finally does, and when he lifts the book up, something breaks inside her because it just feels too perfect that he should get this for her and smile like that.
He sees her face light up as he approaches, then watches her as she laughs and runs towards him. She takes the book from him but doesn't look at it at all; instead, she throws her arms around him and kisses him, laughing against his lips. For a moment, he does nothing – the kiss is not really a kiss, it's more an outburst of pure and unbounded joy, spontaneous and Rory-like, and it's another precious thing about her, this ability to show happiness without restraint. It only lasts a moment but a moment is enough to defeat him, and as he feels her pulling away, he grips her tightly and claims her mouth completely. She's not laughing anymore and her lips part against his immediately; her heart jumps into her throat and pounds in her ears as she feels his hands sneak under her jacket and travel up her back, and she drops her beloved book on the ground unceremoniously and wraps her fingers in his hair, tilting his head to get a better angle, completely indifferent to the fact that there are people around. If the world fell apart around them, she wouldn't even notice.
Her skin is soft and smooth and he explores the texture slowly, up and down her back; a small whimper escapes her when he moves his hands down her side and she clings to him harder. It's like adding gasoline to the fire, this little move she makes, and he pulls her closer and stumbles around, looking for some sort of leverage. The tree behind the bench comes in handy and he pushes her against it blindly. His hands travel to her face, while hers move down to the waistband of his jeans where she hooks her fingers and pulls him closer. His breath catches and she whimpers a little louder this time, gripping him tighter and holding him in place firmly. He opens his eyes and looks at her, and nothing he ever imagined comes anywhere close to what he's seeing now, and nothing he felt over the last year measures up to what he's feeling now, nothing since that last time she kissed him like this. The memory of that night suddenly comes alive again, closely followed by memories of months that came after it and everything else fades in the face of panic that it's all just too much, it's too big of a gamble and in this particular game the dice had never rolled his way. His heart beating wildly, he pulls back from her slowly and pushes his hands into his pockets as he tries to clear his head. It refuses to clear, and he knows it's a lost cause as long as she's so close; he takes another step back and runs his hands through his hair.
She looks at him, out of breath and flushed, but suddenly scared, and her heart sinks as she reads his face. "There it is," she says regretfully. "That look I hate."
"I have to go," he says quietly, looking away from her.
"Go? Go where? What are you talking about?" she asks incredulously.
He shakes his head. "I can't do this."
"Do what? It was just a kiss, Jess," she says softly. He takes another step back and she follows, frowning. "Will you look at me?"
He lifts his eyes and the look is still there, only now it shows naked fear. "I can't do this again," he repeats and shrugs his shoulders. "I'm me and you're you, and we're bound to screw it up somehow, and I can't deal with another aftermath of that."
She stares at him, speechless, hurt, scared, but not entirely surprised, and she suddenly realizes that on some level, she knew this was coming. She shakes her head but words betray her; he just shrugs his shoulders again and walks away.
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 :)