They'd reached Savannah, the beautiful city of trees dripping spanish moss that swayed in the soft breeze; the city of old houses and lacy ironwork, blooming camellias and mockingbirds. They stay in the Pink House for a night, reveling in the soft jazz. They drink iced tea and smile at each other softly, wishing they could forgive because everything is too beautiful to stay so ugly between them.

He smokes on the terrace at night, and she comes out between the fluttering mosquito nets and extinguishes his cigarette, her hair tangled, swaying, her smile as mysterious as the Mona Lisa's.

He wakes up one fresh morning, knowing they'd stayed there too long; elbows resting on the balcony rail, he looks out through the lacy, thick branches where the moss softly sways above the cascades of delicate flowers.

She comes out, arms stretching, yawning, ruffled like a baby chick.

She sits in a lacy iron chair, watching him as he smokes.

It is his shoulders that always soften her. She loves the way the shirt hangs on him, over his strong shoulders that always seem so tense, and his powerful spine. It always sends a soft shiver down to her toes; it is easy to love his body, harder than it is to love him.

She curls her legs up underneath her, watching him, smiling slightly to herself.

"Morning."

"Morning," she replies, soft, mellow, almost singing it. Her blood is warm and rusty in her veins, mouth thick and slow, legs loose and fingers languid. He looks at her, eyebrow raised, sensing all these things immediately. He knows her language when she wants to be touched. But, he does not dare.

Her toes curle and uncurl, and she smiles from behind the hair that dangles in her face.

He is puzzled by the mysterious longing, like the scent of azaleas and honeysuckle, emanating from her.

"Sleep well?"

Rory nods, watching him intensely.

"You didn't though. You had bad dreams. You said, oh no, all of a sudden. I was going to get up and walk over to you, but you suddenly sat up quick and you had a knife in your hand. You were breathing hard. Do you remember?"

He does not reply.

"Sorry I woke you up."

"Wanna tell me about it?" she asks slowly, carefully.

"No."

She shrugs gently, and picks honeysuckle off the vine, rubbing them between her hands absently. She keeps picking at them, taking out the stem and letting the drop of nectar fall on her lips.

"Does that taste like anything?" he asks, for lack of something better to say.

She is now standing in the doorway of the balcony, mosquito net curtains fluttering around her softly.

"Sure. Come here, try one."

He walks towards her, unsure.

She deftly separates a stem.

"Quick, it's gonna drip," she orders, and he tips his head and she lets it fall on his lips. He licks it.

"Almost can taste it. Not too bad."

"Want more?"

He shrugs.

"Alright."

They are tangled in the curtains, her mouth pressed feverishly into his, as his hands control her, move her backwards. His mouth tastes like honeysuckle and smoke, tangy, sweet. He loves her arms and legs tangled around him, and he throws her down on the bed, as she giggles, sitting up. He takes his shirt off, and then they're both quite serious. Jess stands between her legs, and she kisses his stomach.

There is a tattoo of a phoenix on his upper back, near his shoulder. She traces it with her fingertips. They are tangled in the sheets, slow and soft and warm, lazy, urgent, as he lets her touch him as she pleases. She is shy and demanding.

His hands push her thighs apart, touch the cotton edge of the space between them.

She lets him, and she is too warm and struck still of green fire to protest, to push away the gentle hand making it. His hand muffles her mouth.

"Rory."

But it is over, and she quickly turns away, jumping into a cotton dress. He sits on her bed in his jeans, bare chested, wishing for an explanation of what has just happened, but she has none. She begins tossing things into a duffel bag, avoiding his eyes.

"Packing, huh."

"We've stayed here too long."

He nods thoughtfully, truly sorry that she is so right.

That morning they leave Savannah.

They drive furiously non-stop, through Alabama, then Missisippi. It is late at night, and they stop at a Waffle House.

"Very nice."

"The atmosphere?"

"Jess."

"Ok, so it's full of smoke, everyone's scary, the food is disgusting. Half the trucks parked out there have a gun rack."

"I should've worn my rebel flag shirt."

"If you really wanna fit it, I can knock a few of your teeth out or impregnate you," he grins, then wishes he hadn't just said that.

She grimaces.

"So, plan?"

"Well, we've managed to make it down this far in one week. Twenty something hours. I guess we sorta took it slow. You wanna go west?"

"Ooh, Route 66. I wanna see that Barbie museum."

He rolls his eyes.

"Whatever, fine."

"Oh, you like Barbies too?"

"Not even Elton John likes Barbies. Who am I, Liberace?"

"I wouldn't say that too loudly in here if I were you," she smiles.

They pick at their grits, waffles and eggs, eating around the grease pools and cigarette ashes.

"This place is depressing."

"Understatement. Waffle Houses are to the south what Russians are to literature; devastating misery served in good

 sized portions," he says, pouring salt over his eggs.

"Yeah, Gogol would have a field day in here. He thinks he knows dead souls; he should see that trucker over there with greasy hair down to his waist and a belly that barely fits in the booth eating his grits alone."

"Stop, you're making me cry."

"Another thing you shouldn't say too loud in here."

"You and your stereotypes. Aren't guys allowed to cry?" he says lightly, grinning mockingly.

"Only if you're a flaming homosexual watching that Dawson's Creek episode where Joey and Pacey break up."

"Hmm, someone has a secret fetish."

"Ok, everybody knows Pacey and Joey broke up."

They finish up and get back in the car, and he drives during the night because he can't sleep, and because he is thinking about what happened that morning, and about the silky skin on her legs, about her fast hands and slow tongue. About how she flew to her feet so fast, ashamed of that sound she'd made, about her nervous movements.

It's hard to concentrate on the road.

He has so much to think about.

The land is flatter, drying out after the swamps of Louisiana. They stop at a laundromat in a small Texas town, where a local girl with dyed blond pigtails and booty shorts wearing cowboy boots winks at him, leaning against a dryer.

Rory rolls her eyes and stuffs clothes in a washer; they've been reduced to undershirts and unraveling denim. Everything else is worn, sweaty, gritty.

He ignores the blond. Washers rattle under the neon lights, the smell of detergent surrounding them. A fan whirrs in the corner; he buys her a coke from the machine and they laugh at the blonde's dirty look. It is hot, and they sit on rattling dryers, making jokes about vibrations.

They've gotten along a little better these days, her lightening up, seeming to forgive him a little more each day. He is careful with his words, careful to show her he is willing to swallow his pride.

She reads outloud, the shaking of the dryer making her voice hilarious.

Her voice rolls easily over the words, as he stares up at the ceiling fans. She is reading about shells exploding like fireworks, dark nights, thick, sticky earth, shrapnel shrieking, buzzing like insects. All Quiet on the Western Front.

They walk into a grocery store next door and split a large nachos, dripping cheese onto her leg and laughing hilariously. The air is hot, dry and bright under the Texas sky.

The sky is huge, blue and cloudless, like a plastic bowl over them. Her hair smells like sagebrush and leather, like sky.

He is in love, although he would never admit it. No matter what she does to him from now on, he will take it humbly, forever captive to her fingertips.

Of course, he would never tell her that.

They drive on, to the next water tower, to the next roadhouse, to the next ranch.

The road stretches out long and flat before them, colored orange and dust and blue.

It's late at night, when the sky stretches out for miles and miles, clear and dark and magnificent. It's a bolt of black glass studded with rhinestones, just like the windows at the bar where they've stopped. A neon sign flickers and hums, the parking lot is filled with cars that reflect the pink buzz against the clear black sky.

"Ok, this is not safe."

"Stop worrying. I'm a guy with a knife and a high tolerance for alcohol. I won't let anything happen to you, as long as you don't insist on going to the bathroom alone."

She still makes a displeased face, scrunching her slightly burned nose. Her skin has become soft and golden rusted, like the miles of Texas terrain. His is brown and taut and tense over every muscle, sharply constrasting the white fabric of his undershirt that bunches up around his boxer line where the rough denim rides carelessly over his form.

The neon night makes her lightheaded; she feels sleazy and glamorous and he suddenly takes on less emotional significance.

"Let's go get Rory sloshed," she grins, jumping up.

"Whoa, right. Don't even try any funny stuff."

"Stuff it, mom. I'm letting it all hang out tonight; I suddenly have an urge to line dance."

"Please supress it."

"C'mon, I just bought cowboy boots and they look good with these ripped denim shorts! Very honky-tonk chic!"

He rolls his eyes.

"You just used the word chic. You're not good at this letting it all hang out stuff."

"Whatever. It's night. It's warm outside and we've been sweating and traveling with ice instead of AC all day; I might as well work up one last sweat before diapering off tonight," she grins, swaying a little. He stands there, watching her in that parking lot, swinging her arms around, hair in her face, neon sign buzzing above her. The picture is contagious.

"Fine. Don't talk to strangers."

"If you don't."

They look at each other and smirk. There is something burning in their veins that is set alive by this ugly, shakily lit parking lot. He could swear she has just given him a come hither look. She's not sure herself she hasn't.

They stride into the joint; it's full of cigarette smoke, loud music, and glasses clinking under dim lights and loud laughter; on the right there are couples dancing, moving, people stumbling, they yell of the bar-waitress. He grins crazily; he's right at home, but he can sense her apprehension. When he opens his mouth to say something, she turns to him with eyes glimmering full of bar-lights.

"Come on!" she yells, exhilerated, and from that moment he only follows her wake.

She slashes a path through the crowd, attracting several appreciative looks that make him uncomfortable. It's a rough crowd; she's so young and careless and loose-hipped, with her long arms and swinging hair and crazy smile.

They down shots and resist advances; the alcohol sloshes over the bar counters while she downs Bacardi, one shot of Jack Daniels and Perrier between them all just to keep herself busy.

Her legs stride onto the dance floor, and an arm grabs her around the waist. A decent enough Texan with blue eyes and a skylit drawl is teaching her steps, and before he realizes she's swinging around and round the dance floor, her hair drifting through the cigarette smoke like a ghost.

He observes feet; he's very good at learning anything through careful observation. It's all basic. A little more complicated than the basic grind he's used to from basement club holes, rock clubs, and the always almost lethal hip-hop spots where dancing is almost an art of war.

He glides through the curtains of smoke, clutching a pure Smirnoff, mouth burning, eyes focused. It's not long before she's glued to him, and they're sliding, moving; she throws her hands up and the bottle of Silver spills all over her shirt, making it loose and slippery on her skin.

The only thing they hear is the music, and the loud pound of their own hearts, and her short breath. His hands are on her; she is strong, flexible and breakable. Her lips are silver glass, their skin is chilled, then burning against each other. Her fingertips are ice, clutching his arm, the bottle falls to the floor unnoticed. Everything is a play of lights, spiderwebs of smoke, his damp skin against hers. They dance, her hair slaps his face, his hands are relentless, taking her apart piece by piece. She is dizzy now.

"Air."

They stumble outside under the black neon velvet night.

Her mouth is on his now, and she's pressed against the rough brick, and it's scratching her back but she doesn't notice the pain.

"You're drunk."

"And you."

His lips are fierce against hers, slivers like ice between hers. Her mouth tastes like grapefruit and Silver.

He shudders, feeling the heat build up, tearing into him.

"God."

"Am I hurting you?"

"Yes. I don't mind much. Stop toying with that unless you mean it."

"Is that a threat? Cause I--oh......aha."

The duel is tongue against tongue, unforgiving; he presses the tip of his between her teeth. The only sounds are of distant music, buzzing neon, and her small, muffled moans and gasps. She clings to him, feeling a weakness seize her legs. Her hands are fast, harsh, they grasp his back and press him against herself, as if to hold her against the wall.

"Car," he points.

"Car is good. Wall is fine. Top of Empire State Building, a public library, a laundromat, White House bathroom."

She grins weakly. His hands are strong and quick to silence her.

"All in that order? This trip will take longer,"he grimaces, opening her door.

"Car first."

"Not very romantic."

"This is Texas. This is as romantic as it gets."

"God, that I should hear Rory Gilmore say this."

"I have......stuff....."

"Stuff. Yes. Stuff is great, great to have.....prepared."

There is a small, drunk, awkwards silence.

The moment is gone, slipped. The feeling is still there. They stand a few feet apart, regretting the fact that they'd started talking.

"God, it must have been the moment."

"Still want to ."

"Yes," she grins.

"But not now."

"Correct."

He sighs. He knows they're both drunk and he's glad she's stopped it. He couldn't have if he'd tried.

They drive out into the night, letting the chilly air cool them off, and he wills himself to calm. They are too restless to try to sleep, and too forgetful to remember not to drive although they've drunk.

But the road is long and empty under the huge sky, and they drive, bloodshot eyes until they hit the sunrise that slips over the flat, rusty land, painting their faces in pinks and golds.

All they remember of the night before is a dim, heated fog, and a buzz of neon.

At least, that's what they pretend to remember.