A/N:
I don't own the characters, I just play with them. No copyright infringement intended.
25. Snapshots
Rory wakes up late and lazy; the tempting smell of coffee drifts around the apartment, mixing with the soft sound of typing. She opens her eyes and finds Jess sitting at the desk, frowning at the laptop screen in concentration as his fingers fly over the keyboard. His coffee and cigarettes are close at hand, but apparently completely forgotten, because the ashtray is empty and she's pretty certain the coffee has probably grown cold too. It's going to be one of those days.
She found it strange, at first, this writing rhythm of his – there is no regularity to it at all, as opposed to the reading he does for Truncheon. The reading happens on a daily basis, and he does it effortlessly; the writing occurs haphazardly to say the least, in random intervals, at any given time or place, and when it does, he almost turns into a ghost. It's like his mind somehow drifts into an entirely different dimension, and the part of him that remains in this one is just a shell, a piece of décor that has no real function. Places, sounds, people, circumstances, he ignores them all. He'd told her about this, but she didn't really understand the full scope of it until one afternoon they'd decided to go somewhere (she can't really remember where anymore) and boarded a tram; within several stations, the laptop came out of the bag, and they'd ended up riding in circles for hours. After the second time around, she wondered if she should maybe just go back home and leave him there, but didn't really want to, so she'd just pulled out her book and disappeared into a dimension of her own.
It's not really that he can't be snapped out of it; she could interrupt him if she wanted or needed to, but she never does; she did it once, in the beginning, over something meaningless (was it a movie? a concert?) and although he didn't hold it against her, he'd been cranky and somewhat snappish afterward, much like Lorelai when her afternoon nap is cut short, and she'd never disturbed him after that.
She rolls over on her back and stretches, wondering how long he'll be gone for – same as with the sporadic choices of time and place, there are no rules to the lengths of these writing sprees, and she briefly wonders how long he's been sitting there. He's wearing a frown and pajamas, and for a while she just lies there and watches him, listening absentmindedly as his fingers rush over the keyboard in a consistent, steady rhythm. It's another peculiar thing about his writing – he never stops. There is no staring at the screen, no wondering what comes next, no pauses… he just types, and she often wonders if he edits at some point. She'd never seen him do it.
She glances towards the window and watches the rain flow down the panes, and suddenly realizes she doesn't really want to get out of bed yet. Briefly she wonders what the time is, but quickly decides she doesn't really care, and she purposefully avoids the clock as she reaches for her book. Before she opens it, she glances at Jess again and smiles, thinking she wouldn't mind waking up to this scene for a long while... maybe the rest of her life.
….
"I'm naming them," Rory says stubbornly, pushing her plate away.
Jess rolls his eyes and throws his hands up in defeat. "Fine, name them," he smirks and reaches for his beer. "Although I completely fail to see the point."
"Fail to see the point?" she repeats incredulously and shakes her head. "For one thing, it's practical."
He laughs. "Practical how?"
"Practical as in, I could say: hmm, I think …Topsy could use some water, as opposed to saying: hey, that huge palm-resembling bush in the blue pot needs watering," she explains evenly, pointing at the row of plants by the window. "The name makes for a much shorter, clearer sentence. Therefore - practical."
His eyebrows lift. "Topsy?"
She shrugs, fighting back a smile. "It kind of looks like Topsy."
"A plant looks like a literary character?" He grins widely, shaking his head.
Rory sighs. "Well, obviously it doesn't really look like Topsy, but…"
"… seeing as Topsy is a black slave girl and everything…" he interjects mischievously, and goes back to the beer quickly as she throws him a dirty look.
"You know, for someone who claims to be completely indifferent to these plants, you're really making a big deal about Topsy," she remarks with a smirk of her own. "I'm sensing some emotional attachment here. Come to think of it, didn't I hear you talking to them the other day?"
He burst out laughing. "You're delusional."
"I mean, I know I'm new here and therefore intruding on your routine to some degree, but I'll do my best to fit in, and you know, try not to disrupt this wonderful thing you have going… the conversations, the watering rituals and what not…" she trails off innocently.
"Watering rituals?" He shakes his head and starts clearing the plates. "The only watering rituals that went on here were the ones when I had a glass of water sitting out on the desk for a while and it was convenient to dump it in one of the pots," he smirks and takes the plates into the kitchen. "If that qualifies, then yes, me and the plants, we've got rituals."
"Wow, that must have been really hard on Anastasia," she says sadly and follows him into the kitchen with the leftover pasta. She puts the pan on the counter and finds him staring at her quizzically. "The spathyphyllum," she explains solemnly, pointing to the small plant at the end of the line. "They need a lot of water. Like to have their leaves sprinkled, too."
He can't help a smile. "Fictional characters and Russian royalty," he smirks at her. "You know, I actually can't wait to hear what you come up with next."
She laughs and starts rinsing out the plates; Jess watches her for a while, then stands behind her and wraps his hands around her waist.
"The tall one in the corner," he mumbles into her hair, "I want to call it Nick."
She smiles and slowly nods her head.
….
Rory hauls a laundry basket out of the bathroom and drops it on the sofa; she then settles next to it and starts folding the clean clothes. Two neat heaps quickly rise on the coffee table, and she softly hums to the music on TV as she puts one item on top of the other, dividing them between Jess's pile and her own. Half way through, her brain disengages from the music and she suddenly realizes how much clothes she has here; this somehow comes as a surprise, and she tries to remember how and when it came to be. She can't, but as she looks around the room, she notices other things as well – there are at least a dozen of her books strewn about, half of the magazines on the coffee table are hers as well, and several pairs of her shoes are piled up next to Jess's on the hallway floor. She takes it all in slowly, and gradually becomes aware that a big part of her life had somehow shifted into this space, unnoticed. She suddenly wonders if he's aware of this. She stops folding and looks towards the armchair.
Jess is watching her over the laptop in his lap, a peculiar little smile on his face. "I think you need a closet," he says with a trademark smirk.
Her heart skips in tune with the music and she smiles. "I'd like a closet," she proclaims cautiously, watching him carefully.
"Any one in particular that you have your eye on?" he grins, waving his hand around.
She shakes her head. "I don't care." She smiles wider. "As long as it's here."
…
"So, there's this party Friday night at my office," she finally blurts out during a commercial break, having cast worried glances his way through the first half of House.
He flips through a few channels, saying nothing, and she begins to fidget, then gets slightly annoyed at the impassive look on his face.
"I'm not wearing a tie or anything else of that nature," he warns determinedly.
She smiles, wrestling the remote away from him, and finds House again.
…
Jess wakes up to a strange feeling of loneliness after an uneasy dream that he can't recall once he's out of it. Instinctively, he reaches over to her side of the bed, but finds it cool and bare, and it's enough for his eyes to snap open. There's a full moon shining through the window, and quickly he confirms she's not where she's supposed to be; he cranes his neck and peers through the bookcase, noticing the small reading lamp is on in the living room.
He finds her curled up under a blanket on the sofa; her arm is propped on the pillow and she leans her head against it as she reads. He walks over and reclines against the armchair, crossing his hands on his chest, and although he makes no attempt to be quiet, she's completely oblivious to him, just like she's always oblivious to the world when she reads.
"It's 3am," he says softly.
The words startle her and she jumps slightly before she smiles at him. "I thought the light might bother you so I came here."
"It's 3am," he repeats with a smirk. "You have to get up at 7."
She sighs and looks at the book. "I know, but the English are attacking, and George Washington only has a hand-full of men."
He grins, shaking his head in amazement, then slowly walks over to the sofa and drops down next to her. "It's 3am," he whispers and takes the book away from her; it's thick and heavy, and the title reads New York in bold letters. He marks the page she's on, sets the book on the coffee table and stands up. "You'll thank me tomorrow," he smirks at the frown on her face and pulls her up after him.
"Did I mention the English were attacking?" she yawns as she follows him to the bed.
He laughs. "They'll still be attacking tomorrow afternoon," he says casually, "and you won't be struggling to keep your eyes open then."
She crawls into bed after him and throws her hand over him as she settles against his shoulder. "You're right," she mumbles into his chest. "And it's really annoying."
He laughs out loud and holds her closer.
...
"Do you sometimes get the feeling that they just don't make good movies anymore?" Rory asks exasperatedly as they leave the theatre.
Jess opens the umbrella and they start down the street. "After just having irrecoverably lost two hours of my life on something as stupid as this, I'm tempted to say yes," he smirks.
"I actually feel kind of brain damaged," Rory complains and hooks her arm under his, sidestepping a puddle. "That was such a waste of time and money, not to mention nerves," she sighs.
"We could have walked out," he points out with a chuckle.
"Yeah, but at the time, I was sort of transfixed; in some twisted way, I actually wanted to know if it could get any worse…"
"…and with each next scene, it actually did," Jess laughs.
She nods, then shakes her head. "I can't remember the last time I went to a theatre and saw a really good movie, " she says regretfully.
"We saw Citizen Kane just last week," he reminds her innocently.
She rolls her eyes. "That's not what I meant and you know it."
"You just feel that way because of tonight's disaster," he smiles. "There have been some good movies lately."
"Name one, " she challenges.
"How recent are we talking?" he asks, frowning.
She laughs. "Definitely more recent than Citizen Kane," she says playfully, then shrugs. "I don't know, the last few years."
He's quiet for a moment, thinking. "I liked Crazy Heart," he says after a while, then smiles as he steals a glance at her and sees her grimace; there's an inner struggle going on under the cringe and he wonders how it will turn out.
"Okay, so there was one," she admits grudgingly.
He laughs. "There were more," he says with conviction. "You want me to keep going?"
She shrugs, and he pulls her across the street quickly. "Inglorious Basterds was pretty good, in a twisted, Tarantino kind of way. The Hangover was hilarious…"
She shakes her head. "Okay, yeah, there were some… entertaining movies. But none of these were…" she looks for the right word for a moment, "…meaningful."
He mulls this over briefly, then stops walking and looks at her. "Have you seen The Cove?"
Her face pales and she nods slowly. "Point taken," she says quietly. "You win."
He can't really be happy about that now that she looks so nauseous. "You should take it with a grain of salt, you know," he says softly, feeling sorry he's upset her, and they start walking again.
"I know," she nods, "but if only a small percentage of that movie is true, it's still sickening. It's dolphins. It's like slaughtering… pets, or something."
He shrugs. "The western world probably does the same thing with cows," he points out.
"With the same level of cruelty?" she challenges.
"I don't know," he admits, wrapping his arm around her shoulders. "And neither do you."
"Are you seriously trying to justify what happens in that movie?" she asks, bewildered.
"No," he shakes his head. "I'm just trying to refrain from being judgmental. After all, it only shows one side of the story," he points out.
"Yeah, it does," she agrees and folds her arm around his waist. "But it's a profoundly sad and disturbing side," she says quietly.
He smiles and notices a video store ahead. "Come on," he chuckles, pointing it out to her, "let's go and pick out something that will restore both your damaged brain cells and your faith in humanity."
She smiles and wants to say she loves him.
…
He'd first come to terms with it all in his head when she spent the first night in a week at her apartment, and he spent the evening wandering between the terrace and the living room, feeling ridiculously out of place and restless, uncertain what to do with himself. He thought of going out, but it seemed pointless; there was really nowhere he wanted to go, so he'd written emails, watched some television and tried to read, but the silence was so loud and the space so empty around him that he finally gave up and crawled into bed. He'd slept badly, and missed the nightly fight over the blankets, the morning clatter of cups that signaled she was making coffee and the sound of the shower running that he usually woke up to.
In the morning, he'd made coffee, sat out on the terrace and made a conscious and pointed effort to remember how he'd spent his days before she'd re-entered his life. He'd thought of walking around the city, he'd thought of concerts, exhibitions, clubs, books, movies and work; he'd remembered feeling pretty good about it all, pretty content and comfortable. Yet looking back on it all, that life seems to have somehow gone on in black and white, and once she came into it, it gradually shifted into full-color, and he knows that now, having seen all the hues, tints and nuances, there's no way he could go back to that monochromatic reality and be satisfied there.
This truth comes easily and naturally, but curiously, it doesn't make him flinch or panic, it doesn't scare him or bring anxiety, or make him wonder what happens if somewhere down the road this paradise he'd stumbled into turns into hell once again. He just doesn't care, he realizes, somewhat baffled; he doesn't care because he feels it will have been worth any future misery to have lived through this happiness that is the present.
That afternoon, he's reading through new material from Truncheon when he hears the key turn in the door and he watches her come in and kick off her shoes before she walks over and greets him with a kiss and a smile. She then retreats and sits down on the bed; he spins his chair around from the desk and examines the anxious look on her face.
"So, I don't want to do this again," she says somewhat hesitantly, looking up at him.
His heart skips a beat and he slides his chair towards the bed. "Me neither," he says simply and finds her hands.
A radiant smile breaks on her face and the anxiety is wiped away. "I had a really lousy evening and a horrible night," she sighs.
"Me too," he admits with a smirk .
"Good," she murmurs and leans her forehead against his.
He grins. "I've made dinner," he informs her proudly.
She looks up at him. "I hope it will hold," she whispers and reclines into the bed, pulling him after her.
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 :)