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 second half the prologue of In the Blue of the Morning. It takes place from Jess's POV, in his bedroom, on the morning of the day that Rory is supposed to return home.
PAIRING: Eventually, R/J.
RATING: PG
In the Blue of the Morning
Prologue: Him
It's early. It's 5:45 in the morning, which, for the record, is much earlier than I have to get up. But, Luke's alarm went off about a half an hour ago, and I haven't been able to get back to sleep since. It's ironic, really, because it's the first morning that I haven't had to get up before 7 o'clock all summer. But here I am, lying awake, staring at the ceiling, sleepless in Stars Hollow.
Not that it matters anyways, because at about 7:30, Luke will come to the bottom of the stairs, and yell up to me that he'd really like my help with the Saturday morning rush. And I'll get up and help him. Not that helping is really my thing - I'm not really the Boy Scout type. But, the guy is giving me a second chance. I mean, I screwed up - even I can admit it - and I came back asking to live here again, sure he'd shoot me down. But for some reason, he said yes ... so I think I owe the guy. He didn't have to let me live under his roof and all. Plus ... I guess, somewhere, in some scenario, there might be something good to be said about helping family.
I'm not sure why I came back here. I was supposed to be happy the day I finally managed to get shipped back to New York ... but I wasn't. Then again, I wasn't supposed to fall in love my second day in Stars Hollow, and I did.
What I do know is the feeling that I get around ... her ... is one that I've never gotten around anyone else. I can't describe it, Nathaniel Hawthorne couldn't describe it ... there just aren't words for it. But I know I want to feel it all the time, and I never want it to go away. It's addicting.
The morning light is starting to seep in through my blinds and a cool breeze blows over me, causing me to sit up and look towards my window, and for some reason, I'm compelled to get up and actually watch the world outside it. Which is strange all in itself, because there is really nothing to look at. A dumpster. Some back streets - they look pretty friendly, but they are probably considered to be the dangerous parts of town. It's nothing like New York City.
This was my favorite time of the day in New York. I'd get up at this time every morning to stare out our small kitchen window in the distance. At first, I only did it to watch for my mom on the mornings that she wasn't asleep in her bed when I woke up. But later, it just became something of solitude ... to give me a little peace.
Propped up on the counter, I could look out on my small corner of New York. In the distance, I could just barely see the peak of the Empire State building. I could look down onto the city from our tiny apartment on the twelfth floor. It wasn't up that high, but it was high enough for me to be able to watch the expressways change into off-ramps, and morph into busy, crowded streets, where taxies are seen more frequently than cars, and where along the side walks, people would walk towards signs, illuminated by the slowly dimming streetlights, and then descend upon the downward flight of stairs that lead to the Subway and the train that they hoped to make on time.
... I wonder how she likes living in a big city. I mean, I guess it depends what your definition of "living in" really is, because she's really just visiting and only for a little while. But six weeks could feel like a long time with the maniac she's staying with ... I suppose it might feel like she's lived there forever. But I bet she loves it ... I loved it ... at least I did. Until I realized the one thing that the city, even in all it's glory, lacked.
Her.
She's coming home today, I think. Oh, who the hell am I kidding? I know she's coming home today. I know when she arrives at the train station in Hartford, she will get upon a bus, scheduled to arrive at the curb of the Stars Hollow bus stop at exactly 2:43 PM. And, I wonder if, when she gets off the bus, if she'll look past the smile of her excited mother, her best friend, to see if I'm lurking around somewhere. I wonder ... if I should go ... even if she can't be detoured away from her crazed, caffeine driven mother ... at least then she'd know ... that I'd been there ... that I cared.
It's a bad idea, though. Not because I don't want to, and not because I don't care ... because believe me, I do, as strange as it may sound. It'd just be too hard. And, on the off shot that she could tear herself away to come talk to me, I have no idea what I would say. I can't let myself show that I was actually hurt by her leaving. I can't shot the disappointment I felt every afternoon when the mail came and there were no letters, or the stab I felt every time the phone rang at 10:30 at night ... and it was just another wrong number.
And mostly because I don't know how to explain the ... distraction, that I seem to have acquired in her absence ... the distraction I embarked upon in hopes of estranging myself from the situation with her.
The problem is that the distraction comes in a complex package: blonde hair, hazel eyes, five feet, five inches tall, and one-hundred and twenty-five pounds, answers to the name Shane Mannex. She's nothing more to me than a distraction ... unless you want to get really technical, in which case, I guess the appropriate term for her would be my girlfriend.
I feel nothing with Shane. She's attractive enough, and everything. But her eyes are empty, and her smile is fake, and stained from smoking - which she does more than I ever did. And she's a great kisser ... but there's no spark there. And she's from Detroit, a bad area ... so she has an idea of where I come from. But she's simply a distraction.
It's wrong, I know it's wrong, no one has to tell me. (But I hear it enough from Luke, anyhow.) But it's not like I was waiting around in the diner, serving food to gossiping dance instructors who eye me like a piece of strip steak, getting paid the bare minimum wage, and no tips, just hoping that this golden opportunity would show up. It just happened. She took a break from work, about two weeks after ... she ... left for D.C. Came in for and iced tea. And before I know it, she's asking me to show her around town - since she's new here.
If she hadn't had shown interest in me, I never would've even thought twice about it ... I'd seen a million girls just like her in New York, looking for a new piece of arm candy. But someone, the it seemed like the perfect solution to the rut I was in, so I took her up on it.
And I thought maybe that it had started working. But obviously it hasn't. Because here I am, standing in front of my bed room window in the dim light of the sun, that reflects off the blue sky and casts a shadow over everything in the room. It reminds me of her ... and her piercing blue eyes, and it hits me like a bullet racing at 100-plus miles per hour, causing me to catch my breath. I try to compose myself ... "Get a grip on yourself, Mariano, you're losing your touch." But it's no use. So ... I do what I can. I look up at the sky and I hope that ... maybe ... just maybe ... and only if I have the slightest shot in hell ... that she is thinking of me, too ... somewhere ... in the blue of the morning.
SUMMARY: This is the second half the prologue of In the Blue of the Morning. It takes place from Jess's POV, in his bedroom, on the morning of the day that Rory is supposed to return home.
PAIRING: Eventually, R/J.
RATING: PG
In the Blue of the Morning
Prologue: Him
It's early. It's 5:45 in the morning, which, for the record, is much earlier than I have to get up. But, Luke's alarm went off about a half an hour ago, and I haven't been able to get back to sleep since. It's ironic, really, because it's the first morning that I haven't had to get up before 7 o'clock all summer. But here I am, lying awake, staring at the ceiling, sleepless in Stars Hollow.
Not that it matters anyways, because at about 7:30, Luke will come to the bottom of the stairs, and yell up to me that he'd really like my help with the Saturday morning rush. And I'll get up and help him. Not that helping is really my thing - I'm not really the Boy Scout type. But, the guy is giving me a second chance. I mean, I screwed up - even I can admit it - and I came back asking to live here again, sure he'd shoot me down. But for some reason, he said yes ... so I think I owe the guy. He didn't have to let me live under his roof and all. Plus ... I guess, somewhere, in some scenario, there might be something good to be said about helping family.
I'm not sure why I came back here. I was supposed to be happy the day I finally managed to get shipped back to New York ... but I wasn't. Then again, I wasn't supposed to fall in love my second day in Stars Hollow, and I did.
What I do know is the feeling that I get around ... her ... is one that I've never gotten around anyone else. I can't describe it, Nathaniel Hawthorne couldn't describe it ... there just aren't words for it. But I know I want to feel it all the time, and I never want it to go away. It's addicting.
The morning light is starting to seep in through my blinds and a cool breeze blows over me, causing me to sit up and look towards my window, and for some reason, I'm compelled to get up and actually watch the world outside it. Which is strange all in itself, because there is really nothing to look at. A dumpster. Some back streets - they look pretty friendly, but they are probably considered to be the dangerous parts of town. It's nothing like New York City.
This was my favorite time of the day in New York. I'd get up at this time every morning to stare out our small kitchen window in the distance. At first, I only did it to watch for my mom on the mornings that she wasn't asleep in her bed when I woke up. But later, it just became something of solitude ... to give me a little peace.
Propped up on the counter, I could look out on my small corner of New York. In the distance, I could just barely see the peak of the Empire State building. I could look down onto the city from our tiny apartment on the twelfth floor. It wasn't up that high, but it was high enough for me to be able to watch the expressways change into off-ramps, and morph into busy, crowded streets, where taxies are seen more frequently than cars, and where along the side walks, people would walk towards signs, illuminated by the slowly dimming streetlights, and then descend upon the downward flight of stairs that lead to the Subway and the train that they hoped to make on time.
... I wonder how she likes living in a big city. I mean, I guess it depends what your definition of "living in" really is, because she's really just visiting and only for a little while. But six weeks could feel like a long time with the maniac she's staying with ... I suppose it might feel like she's lived there forever. But I bet she loves it ... I loved it ... at least I did. Until I realized the one thing that the city, even in all it's glory, lacked.
Her.
She's coming home today, I think. Oh, who the hell am I kidding? I know she's coming home today. I know when she arrives at the train station in Hartford, she will get upon a bus, scheduled to arrive at the curb of the Stars Hollow bus stop at exactly 2:43 PM. And, I wonder if, when she gets off the bus, if she'll look past the smile of her excited mother, her best friend, to see if I'm lurking around somewhere. I wonder ... if I should go ... even if she can't be detoured away from her crazed, caffeine driven mother ... at least then she'd know ... that I'd been there ... that I cared.
It's a bad idea, though. Not because I don't want to, and not because I don't care ... because believe me, I do, as strange as it may sound. It'd just be too hard. And, on the off shot that she could tear herself away to come talk to me, I have no idea what I would say. I can't let myself show that I was actually hurt by her leaving. I can't shot the disappointment I felt every afternoon when the mail came and there were no letters, or the stab I felt every time the phone rang at 10:30 at night ... and it was just another wrong number.
And mostly because I don't know how to explain the ... distraction, that I seem to have acquired in her absence ... the distraction I embarked upon in hopes of estranging myself from the situation with her.
The problem is that the distraction comes in a complex package: blonde hair, hazel eyes, five feet, five inches tall, and one-hundred and twenty-five pounds, answers to the name Shane Mannex. She's nothing more to me than a distraction ... unless you want to get really technical, in which case, I guess the appropriate term for her would be my girlfriend.
I feel nothing with Shane. She's attractive enough, and everything. But her eyes are empty, and her smile is fake, and stained from smoking - which she does more than I ever did. And she's a great kisser ... but there's no spark there. And she's from Detroit, a bad area ... so she has an idea of where I come from. But she's simply a distraction.
It's wrong, I know it's wrong, no one has to tell me. (But I hear it enough from Luke, anyhow.) But it's not like I was waiting around in the diner, serving food to gossiping dance instructors who eye me like a piece of strip steak, getting paid the bare minimum wage, and no tips, just hoping that this golden opportunity would show up. It just happened. She took a break from work, about two weeks after ... she ... left for D.C. Came in for and iced tea. And before I know it, she's asking me to show her around town - since she's new here.
If she hadn't had shown interest in me, I never would've even thought twice about it ... I'd seen a million girls just like her in New York, looking for a new piece of arm candy. But someone, the it seemed like the perfect solution to the rut I was in, so I took her up on it.
And I thought maybe that it had started working. But obviously it hasn't. Because here I am, standing in front of my bed room window in the dim light of the sun, that reflects off the blue sky and casts a shadow over everything in the room. It reminds me of her ... and her piercing blue eyes, and it hits me like a bullet racing at 100-plus miles per hour, causing me to catch my breath. I try to compose myself ... "Get a grip on yourself, Mariano, you're losing your touch." But it's no use. So ... I do what I can. I look up at the sky and I hope that ... maybe ... just maybe ... and only if I have the slightest shot in hell ... that she is thinking of me, too ... somewhere ... in the blue of the morning.