What We Are
Chapter 1 - Apathy
A/N: So I thought this would be a simple 'Jess returns' fic. I was wrong. Kinda. I'm hoping it will turn into something different and maybe unexpected, but who knows? I have a sort-of-theme-ish idea, at any rate. So…here is the first chapter, longer as promised. It should get clearer as the story goes on. Thanks so much for the reviews. And italics are future-flashes.
To everyone who reviewed asking me to update. I'm sorry I didn't listen sooner and I appreciate it. To the wonderful Christie because she makes me laugh with at least every other post of hers (lol), and because she's an awesome beta, no matter what she says. Thank you!
----------
It's strange how the details jump out at him like this, so easily. Cracks in branches, scratches in the paint. And the astounding amount of gray everywhere. There are no other colors. None at all.
Except there are, of course there are, so many.
They aren't apparent; they blend into the background along with everything else. It's all a background, a canvas waiting for the bright colors, the events in life, to happen and to splatter the canvas so there is no empty space left, no background at all. He waits for it to become three-dimensional, but nothing slides into place and bursts out toward him, like one of those paintings in dentists' offices—those paintings he always hated because he couldn't see the pictures hidden in the patterns.
His eyes are clouded, always clouded, not by tears, but by apathy.
It constantly gets more difficult to see, and he thinks maybe vision coincides with clear thinking, with decision-making.
Except he can see well, perfectly well. That screw in the bench, there, several feet away: it's out of place.
There must be an explanation.
-----
He was lucky to avoid a ticket last night, because he couldn't have paid it.
He couldn't have paid it, because the envelope of money stuck in the visor of his car is going back where it came from as soon as he can get it there, and Gypsy overcharged him, as she always does.
Turns (like that one he made) in the middle of a freeway are illegal, and he knows it. It's one of the reasons he did it. And he had no intention of taking the long way around.
He's never experienced the feeling of needing to be somewhere. Wanting, sure: Her smile and her voice: "Turn right." It came back to him constantly on that bus ride to New York, a year ago. And then, this was where she was. So then, he was here, and he was facing down Luke's incredulous looks, his sarcastic laughter, his insistence that things would be different this time. And he was agreeing with the conditions.
This is where she still is.
But now he recognizes what it means when Taylor walks down the street that way, waving a flier of some kind in the air: take cover. He knows to avoid Miss Patty, particularly when she's holding a microphone. He remembers the aisle of Doose's that the superglue is in.
(Maybe that last one isn't only because he's spent so much time in Stars Hollow.)
Now, he nearly jumps at every flash of light brown hair, any talking or laughing that sounds remotely like hers. He has thought of exactly nothing to say, to do.
Words planned out for before telling her all…
Not all. But the important thing: I love you. He meant to explain first, even to apologize. He meant to hesitate and need to correct himself while he spoke, and that wasn't part of the convincing plan, the 'get Rory to respond' plan. It was knowledge of what would happen when he finally faced her.
So he prepared.
And he lost it.
And she reacted wrong.
Not unusual.
And these words he mentally organized, outlined as much as he was willing—they are entirely useless, and he can no longer get away with being unsure.
He shouldn't want to anyway. She can take care of that for both of them.
-----
They are many things, none of them describable.
Is that even a word? she wonders. Describable. It sounds right.
They are many things. He and her, her and him, both of them. Separate, they are different, too different, and at the same time far too much alike to get along. Yet they do (often, at least), as much as either tries to deny it.
And therefore, whatever stage of hating they are in: real pretend hate, friendship, love, or anywhere in between, they are something. They make up an intangible entity of some kind, a thousand different things that neither of them can be by themselves.
It's what drives her back to him and what drives him to accept that she comes.
It's what forces him to abandon his defined opinions and clearly reasoned choices and continue to return.
Alone, he is Jess and doesn't like existing at times…alone, she sometimes doesn't either, and she herself is so many possibilities, bottled together, none of them enacted. Doubtful, anxious, cautious, or crazy, loud, gleeful for no reason—coffee certainly is a staple in life.
And he is always somewhere to pour a cup for her, with varying amounts of begging, pleading, et cetera.
-----
"You're back."
Jess doesn't get the first turn this time.
"See you haven't changed much," he replies.
"It doesn't happen often."
Jess himself has a smirk, several, all meaning different things. They occur without him thinking about it, most of the time, but they don't show how he's feeling: one has to know him really well.
Or be something hinting telepathic, because Rory has always seemed to be able to tell.
Luke has a smirk of his own too, and Jess has seen it several times too many. He knows what it means. And there are different versions, slightly, ever so slightly; somehow he gets the meaning of all of them. And it's there now, staring down at him, trying, trying…
It induces no guilt, it causes no pain. No nervousness, no awkwardness.
He doesn't speak, doesn't respond. Luke waits.
But can't wait long enough. "Are you back?"
"What does it look like?"
"Do you want to tell me why?"
"Not particularly."
"Honesty is the best policy, huh?"
"I decided to revive my kindergarten value system."
"Blocks are in the corner over there, naptime is at eleven in the morning, and play nice with others or else you'll get a time-out?" Luke says it dryly, in his 'I see what you're playing at' voice, staring right at Jess, who knows he's caught.
Another person on the list of those who see straight through him. He doesn't like the feeling.
No one does, but for some reason, he is more susceptible to it than most. Possibly it's because of the amount he doesn't want it, possibly it is because he spends so much energy trying not to care he ends up acting like he cares anyway.
Some get stuck in vicious circles, Rory in particular (he remembers the conversations in the diner, casual conversations—homework, reading, movies, coffee—all too well), but his entire life is one, in some convoluted form. It's a vicious Mobius Strip. Isn't he lucky.
If he doesn't care about these facts either, all of it ought to be a lot easier. It may be something he should try; he thinks he will.
Except that look on her face last night was just, just enough for that illegal turn on the highway (when has he ever cared about what's legal?), just enough to make him park his car back in the place where he knows she'll see it soon. Just enough to have made him wonder if he should play out one of those 'what if's that are constantly parading in his head.
He did.
And now, with the blue baseball cap and sarcastic look that goes with it…
He is caught, and Luke probably even knows why, which makes it so much worse.
Good thing none of it matters.
"I was a rebel kindergartener, Uncle Luke," he says, realizing how pathetic the reply is before he opens his mouth. But it's all he's coming up with now.
The action he has taken most often in this building is to close that door behind him and leave. He does it again, before he waits for any answer to his response, but the door doesn't reopen and an answer doesn't come.
There is no book in his back pocket.
What is it with authors, books, stories, and the importance of little things? Their constant insistence that what seems unimportant matters, matters more than anything else. That one kiss, touch, flicker of a person's eyes. The one thing they say on that one night. The one time people come back.
Or the too many times they leave.
It's a useful plot device and nothing more.
-----
The et cetera. The et cetera. It is what is worthy of concentration, but the lack thereof is what he tends to concentrate on.
She thinks he doesn't. She thinks she knows he doesn't.
The cup is too full. Dark, black, too-strong coffee spills over the edge, down the white ceramic and onto the counter. He doesn't apologize for its faults, the spilling, the pouring, the taste. It's burnt: the pot is smoking in the back room sink right now.
She sniffs the air. "Something on fire?"
He shakes his head. "Everything's fine."
He is surprised at her ability to stifle a grimace. Who knows, maybe she likes the taste of burnt coffee.
"You haven't turned off the smoke alarm, have you?" That smug look is on her face, but it's the one that goes with a smile. The 'hey, I thought of something first' look. He doesn't want to admit that he likes it, that it almost makes him smile, but it almost does.
"Shut up," he tells her, grinning, shoving back the uncertainty and the idea of wanting to be left alone right now, for the good of everyone who comes in contact with him the next morning. He climbs up on a stool beside her and reaches up to the switch on the device above their heads. He begins to get back down, but then Rory stands up, too, and grabs his arm.
"Yeah?" he says in response.
She shakes her head. "I really don't know."
"I guess there's nothing else, then."
Now she shrugs and nods. "Yeah, nothing else." She can feel the…something there too, but as for what the hell this feeling is…he has no idea, and he doesn't believe she does either.
They both get down, with awkward movements—stools aren't meant to be climbed on.
"I'll see you."
He nods; she shuts the door, and the lock clicks into place.
'Why the hell do you still bother with stupid formality?' his mind shouts at her, without a sound escaping. He dumps the barely sipped coffee into the sink with the still-steaming pot, then returns to the counter; scratches off the remains of the dried coffee with his fingernails.
-----
There are probably millions of beat up, used cars in the world.
Of course there are. And with so many, some have to look almost exactly like one another. Down to the rust spots, scratches, bent mirrors and dirty windshield.
No?
Yet another disappointment.
Disappointment? The word jumps into her mind, the first thing she thinks of. And her usual panic reaction occurs: analyzing it for all its worth, ending up with no conclusions.
It isn't disappointing. It's surprising, and she's torn between whether she thinks it is a good or bad surprise.
Right between good and bad: neutral.
Like chemistry. Acids, bases, but most of the world is neutral, normal.
If only life were as easy to read as a pH scale. If only Jess were that easy to read, but he is probably the most difficult person to figure out she's ever known. It's hard and it never ends up being anything and nothing ever happens, because something will get destroyed or else someone will run away.
Is there anything worth this?
Even if there is, it won't come to that, whatever it is.
"Why?" Lorelai had asked her, watching Rory smile as she talked about Jess.
She doesn't know.
Neutral, she tells herself again. She will see what happens; she'll be part of it, so she'll be there. That'll be it.
Is it normal to think this much about something that doesn't matter?