DISCLAIMER: I am in no way shape or form affiliated with Warner Bros., Amy Sherman-Palladino, or their hit series "Gilmore girls." I do not own any of the following characters, or the settings in which they take place, or the scenarios.
SUMMARY: This is the first half the prologue of In the Blue of the Morning. It takes place from Rory's POV on her last morning in Washington.
PAIRING: Eventually, R/J.
RATING: PG
In the Blue of the Morning
Prologue: Her
It's early. Almost 5:45 in the morning. It's earlier than I have to get up, but for some reason, I've set my alarm for this time every morning since I arrived here.
The glowing numbers on my digital alarm clock flash from 5:44 to 5:45, and I methodically reach out to shut off it's alarm before it can release it's deafening, harsh sound. Then I turn on my back, and lie awake, staring at the ceiling.
It seems it's only seconds before light starts filtering through the curtains of the one, lone window in this room. Then I remember why it is that I get up at this time. I quietly throw my covers aside, and get up to meet the welcoming morning light, basking in the slivers of light that push their way between the curtain and shed light on the dark floor.
I can't decide what I love most about this time of day.
Maybe it's the cool breeze the rushes swiftly - but not quite hurriedly - through the open window, and past me, tickling my tired senses, still dreamy with sleep. Maybe it's that I can just barely see the moon and the stars in the setting of a cerulean blue sky, lit by the slowly rising sun.
Maybe it's the sound of a few cars, driving briskly along on the desolate roads that turn into on-ramps, and expressways that whisk past the tall buildings nestled in the heart of the city. Maybe it's that I like to wonder who exactly is in these car, and where they're headed to - or going from.
Maybe it's because in the distance I can just see the Mall. I can see the Washington Monument, and even further away, mirroring in the reflecting pond, is the Lincoln Memorial. I can't quite make out Mr. Lincoln's face from here, but I know that that is surely him, in his chair, and engraved in the walls next to him, are the Gettysburg Address, and the Emancipation Proclamation. ... I like the Lincoln Memorial - of all the things here that I thought I would like, I never imagined that the Lincoln Memorial would end up my favorite. Not that Mr. Lincoln wasn't a great president, I just thought it'd be like every other monument. But there's something about it, something about sitting on the steps, and staring out onto the reflecting pool that puts me at ease. It helps me to think, to sort out things. Not that I've managed to sort out much ... but at least it's silent, in that busy kind of way. I mean, there are always people around - tour groups, tourists, security guards. But I'm all by myself then, and there's no one there to talk to me or to interrupt my thoughts - except for maybe the occasional page from Paris ("Where are you?") or a bit of small talk with someone I've met from another school.
Maybe that's why I love this time of day so much. Because, to the be perfectly honest with you, it's the only time of the day that my roommate Paris Gellar is remotely quiet. I say remotely because this is Paris we are talking about, and she mumbles while she sleeps, which is probably a result of her mind reeling at speeds up to 100 miles per hour, even when she's sleeping. Of course, if she heard that, she'd think I was slighting her - "How could my mind possibly be moving that much slower than my mouth?"
I guess I can't be too critical of her. She's been awfully patient with me these past six weeks. But, I guess she had to be. I mean, I'm the only person who she really knows here. And I guess it helps that she is quiet aware of the fact that she and I are stuck together, to help run the student body for eternity. Well, at least senior. Of course, from where I'm standing it seems like a lifetime.
And, after all, Paris is the only one who knows. She knows what is possibly the deepest secret I've ever had. Something I haven't told even my mother, yet - and she's my best friend. Of course, I don't really think that Paris actually ever wanted to know. It just kind of all came pouring out one day ... I'd been so distracted.
I'm still so distracted.
I wonder what he's doing right now. ... Is he sleeping? Is he awake? Is he reading? ... Is he thinking of me? Does he ever think of me? Does he miss me?
I hope he misses me. I miss him, like I've never missed anyone before ... not even my mom.
It's pathetic, really. At least some people would say it is. I mean, I have a boyfriend. A boyfriend who loves me. A boyfriend who's written me so many letters, that if I got a dollar for everyone of them, I'd have enough money to buy myself a new car, and still have some left over to make a considerable donation to charity. A boyfriend who I've only written one letter to.
But, I've actually written several letters since I've been here. A few to my grandparents, a couple to Lane - I even sent postcard to my mom, which is really kind of pointless when you think about it, since I talk to her on the phone every night before I got to bed. But, she likes getting mail, especially postcards ... I think they make her feel worldly. She has a shoebox filled with them somewhere. Of course, the shoes that originally came in that shoe box are probably still in it, covered by the postcards. They were probably a pair my grandma bought her on a whim. Something hideous, I bet. And I'm sure that at first glance, my mom decided she never wanted to look at them, ever again, let alone touch them to remove them from the box, or have to carry them into a store to exchange them. No, instead she'll just use it to squirrel away her clutter. That's my mother for you. But I can't really criticize her, it'd be hypocritical, simply because every day I see myself acting more and more like her, and picking up her bizarre tendencies. The early rising ... now that's my dad. But everything else is all my mom. My love for movie nights, junk food, coffee ... Harvard ... my boyfriend - basically everything I know and love is all her doing, teaching, encouraging. And I love her for all of it ... or at least the great majority of it.
Which is why this is killing me like nothing ever has before.
It's killing me because I can't tell her about my shoebox ... the shoebox filled to the brim with unfinished, never to be mailed letters ... all to him. I can't tell her about my dreams in which my loving boyfriend suddenly morphs into him, and I wakeup, startled, but finally feel that "crazy, happy" feeling I get at every thought of him - the feeling that she's been telling me about my whole life.
And worst, I can't tell her about this moment, when I'm yearning for him more than I ever have for anything in my entire life. This moment when I finally realize what I love most about this time of the morning is the dim light of the sun, reflecting off the royal blue sky, casting a blue shadow over everything in that room, that, for some reason, causes me to think of him the most. And I can't tell her about my last, early morning in Washington D.C., when I'm only playing against time, and my own stubborn conscience, and I look out my one, lone window ... and up at the sky, and wonder if maybe - just maybe - he's thinking of me, too ... somewhere ... in the blue of the morning.
SUMMARY: This is the first half the prologue of In the Blue of the Morning. It takes place from Rory's POV on her last morning in Washington.
PAIRING: Eventually, R/J.
RATING: PG
In the Blue of the Morning
Prologue: Her
It's early. Almost 5:45 in the morning. It's earlier than I have to get up, but for some reason, I've set my alarm for this time every morning since I arrived here.
The glowing numbers on my digital alarm clock flash from 5:44 to 5:45, and I methodically reach out to shut off it's alarm before it can release it's deafening, harsh sound. Then I turn on my back, and lie awake, staring at the ceiling.
It seems it's only seconds before light starts filtering through the curtains of the one, lone window in this room. Then I remember why it is that I get up at this time. I quietly throw my covers aside, and get up to meet the welcoming morning light, basking in the slivers of light that push their way between the curtain and shed light on the dark floor.
I can't decide what I love most about this time of day.
Maybe it's the cool breeze the rushes swiftly - but not quite hurriedly - through the open window, and past me, tickling my tired senses, still dreamy with sleep. Maybe it's that I can just barely see the moon and the stars in the setting of a cerulean blue sky, lit by the slowly rising sun.
Maybe it's the sound of a few cars, driving briskly along on the desolate roads that turn into on-ramps, and expressways that whisk past the tall buildings nestled in the heart of the city. Maybe it's that I like to wonder who exactly is in these car, and where they're headed to - or going from.
Maybe it's because in the distance I can just see the Mall. I can see the Washington Monument, and even further away, mirroring in the reflecting pond, is the Lincoln Memorial. I can't quite make out Mr. Lincoln's face from here, but I know that that is surely him, in his chair, and engraved in the walls next to him, are the Gettysburg Address, and the Emancipation Proclamation. ... I like the Lincoln Memorial - of all the things here that I thought I would like, I never imagined that the Lincoln Memorial would end up my favorite. Not that Mr. Lincoln wasn't a great president, I just thought it'd be like every other monument. But there's something about it, something about sitting on the steps, and staring out onto the reflecting pool that puts me at ease. It helps me to think, to sort out things. Not that I've managed to sort out much ... but at least it's silent, in that busy kind of way. I mean, there are always people around - tour groups, tourists, security guards. But I'm all by myself then, and there's no one there to talk to me or to interrupt my thoughts - except for maybe the occasional page from Paris ("Where are you?") or a bit of small talk with someone I've met from another school.
Maybe that's why I love this time of day so much. Because, to the be perfectly honest with you, it's the only time of the day that my roommate Paris Gellar is remotely quiet. I say remotely because this is Paris we are talking about, and she mumbles while she sleeps, which is probably a result of her mind reeling at speeds up to 100 miles per hour, even when she's sleeping. Of course, if she heard that, she'd think I was slighting her - "How could my mind possibly be moving that much slower than my mouth?"
I guess I can't be too critical of her. She's been awfully patient with me these past six weeks. But, I guess she had to be. I mean, I'm the only person who she really knows here. And I guess it helps that she is quiet aware of the fact that she and I are stuck together, to help run the student body for eternity. Well, at least senior. Of course, from where I'm standing it seems like a lifetime.
And, after all, Paris is the only one who knows. She knows what is possibly the deepest secret I've ever had. Something I haven't told even my mother, yet - and she's my best friend. Of course, I don't really think that Paris actually ever wanted to know. It just kind of all came pouring out one day ... I'd been so distracted.
I'm still so distracted.
I wonder what he's doing right now. ... Is he sleeping? Is he awake? Is he reading? ... Is he thinking of me? Does he ever think of me? Does he miss me?
I hope he misses me. I miss him, like I've never missed anyone before ... not even my mom.
It's pathetic, really. At least some people would say it is. I mean, I have a boyfriend. A boyfriend who loves me. A boyfriend who's written me so many letters, that if I got a dollar for everyone of them, I'd have enough money to buy myself a new car, and still have some left over to make a considerable donation to charity. A boyfriend who I've only written one letter to.
But, I've actually written several letters since I've been here. A few to my grandparents, a couple to Lane - I even sent postcard to my mom, which is really kind of pointless when you think about it, since I talk to her on the phone every night before I got to bed. But, she likes getting mail, especially postcards ... I think they make her feel worldly. She has a shoebox filled with them somewhere. Of course, the shoes that originally came in that shoe box are probably still in it, covered by the postcards. They were probably a pair my grandma bought her on a whim. Something hideous, I bet. And I'm sure that at first glance, my mom decided she never wanted to look at them, ever again, let alone touch them to remove them from the box, or have to carry them into a store to exchange them. No, instead she'll just use it to squirrel away her clutter. That's my mother for you. But I can't really criticize her, it'd be hypocritical, simply because every day I see myself acting more and more like her, and picking up her bizarre tendencies. The early rising ... now that's my dad. But everything else is all my mom. My love for movie nights, junk food, coffee ... Harvard ... my boyfriend - basically everything I know and love is all her doing, teaching, encouraging. And I love her for all of it ... or at least the great majority of it.
Which is why this is killing me like nothing ever has before.
It's killing me because I can't tell her about my shoebox ... the shoebox filled to the brim with unfinished, never to be mailed letters ... all to him. I can't tell her about my dreams in which my loving boyfriend suddenly morphs into him, and I wakeup, startled, but finally feel that "crazy, happy" feeling I get at every thought of him - the feeling that she's been telling me about my whole life.
And worst, I can't tell her about this moment, when I'm yearning for him more than I ever have for anything in my entire life. This moment when I finally realize what I love most about this time of the morning is the dim light of the sun, reflecting off the royal blue sky, casting a blue shadow over everything in that room, that, for some reason, causes me to think of him the most. And I can't tell her about my last, early morning in Washington D.C., when I'm only playing against time, and my own stubborn conscience, and I look out my one, lone window ... and up at the sky, and wonder if maybe - just maybe - he's thinking of me, too ... somewhere ... in the blue of the morning.