Sirens
Disclaimer: I do not own Jess. It's more of a mutual thing.
A/N: I wrote this because I love the character and partially, in response to 'no name' (a recent DB reviewer). We all see in Jess what we want to see. To some, he's just a jerk who isn't worth time, sympathy, or consideration. To others, he's just the guy who stole Rory from Dean. But to us, the Lits, he's just ours… our Jess… a mixture of all that's right and wrong – imperfect, flawed, but most of all, real. His complexity is what makes him special. I write him as I see him. Does that answer your question? Becka
He likes to sleep with the window open.
Every night, it's part of his ritual. Shower. Brush teeth. Put on boxers. Open window. Read.
He knows it probably isn't smart – having his window open as far as it will go. He doesn't live in the best neighborhood in New York, and the exposed screen is practically begging to be sliced by a pocketknife. He doesn't really care. Let them come. Let them try to steal what few belongings he has left. He's itching for a fight anyway, punching and being punched. He imagines the pain radiating up his arm, the red blotches forming on his knuckles. At least he'd feel alive.
Staring out the window, he silently challenges them. Then, with a deep sigh, he walks to the bed and lies down. For a long while, he stays completely still. He counts the spots on the ceiling where the paint is peeling off, exposing the nondescript brown underneath and waits for the sound that gives him peace.
When long minutes have passed and it hasn't come, his jaw tightens. Reaching over the side of the bed, he grabs a paperback from the threadbare, orange carpet that covers his floor. Settling back, he begins to read.
It's a warm night. The air is stifling and humid around him. He tries to ignore it. Page after page, he keeps reading, listening, waiting. At last, his eyes grow heavy, and without his consent, he falls asleep.
Every night, he is haunted by two dreams. In each, the setting is the same. An empty college dorm room. Cardboard boxes are packed and stacked neatly in the corner. The walls are bare. The dark night is visible out the window. The moon shines faintly through the tree boughs and lights her face.
She always looks the same. Beautiful. Fragile. Angelic. In both dreams, he yearns to reach out to her, but she keeps her arms folded protectively over her chest. Backing away when he approaches. Darting to the side when he redirects his path. Avoiding his eyes.
All he has are words.
In both dreams, his heart beats wildly in his chest. He feels panic tying knots in his stomach. His hands shake with desperation. If only he could find it. Whatever magical phrase he needs to say to convince her.
"I love you" didn't work.
Her eyes always hold that same, sad doubt.
Words keep tumbling from his lips, even as she makes her decision. One word defining the outcome of each dream. One word making the only difference.
In one dream, she says 'no,' and he hates her for it.
In the other, she says 'yes' … and, with time, hates him.
He never wakes with a start or jerks in astonishment. Even in a dream state, he's used to disappointment. When the dreams are done with him, they drift away, and he spends the rest of the night in darkness. Free of images.
During the night, the weather changes. A cool breeze drifts through the screen and wafts over his bare limbs. He shivers and opens his eyes, remembering what it's like to feel something. Anything.
As he lets the cold take hold, a siren sounds, reminding him where he is.
In Stars Hollow, there are no sirens. Nothing bad ever happens. No one gets hurt.
His heart constricts. He feels something wet and warm glide down his cheek.
As the emergency cars fly by his window, he closes his eyes and listens, embracing the sound of pain acknowledged and finding that elusive peace at last.