Disclaimer: Don't own 'em, so sue me if I'm using 'em. I'm getting sick of this. One of these days I'll claim I own them, and won't it be fun then?

Oh, and by the way, this takes place on a week-end. It is now, currently, Sunday. No literacy banter. Somehow, they don't need it right now. Plus, I have to find something better than Nelson Demille, and am really not in the mood for the Oxford Complete Shakespeare.

Chapter 7: Lorelai Victoria Gilmore and Sleeping Shakespeare-Quoting Gut-Spilling Beauty.

That was how Lorelai found them when she managed to come home at 4.30 in the morning, cursing under her breath to whatever gods might be listening. Out of habit more than anything else she went to check on Rory, needing to take a look at her daughter in order to recapture some of her usual happy disposition... only to find her entwined with Jess on top of the blankets, disheveled hair and clothes askew.

But still there. She thought as her eyes adjusted to the penumbra.

She sighed and held on to the doorjamb, waiting for the panick attack to subsize, and examined the scene in front of her by the light seeping in the darkened room through the door from the hallway.

Jess looked... peaceful. His features were relaxed, his arms securely wrapped around her daughter from behind. Even in his sleep he seemed protective of her, and for the first time in the last couple of years she couldn't find him threatening but, oddly, endearing. And Rory... well, she looked her usual angelic self, but gone was the hurt that had so often shadowed her features during the past year. Hurt that, Lorelai knew, came from different sources: Christopher's defection, Jess's behavior, her own less than positive attitude when it came to dealing with this particular relationship. Lorelai stood there, wanting to take in every detail of this tableau. Somewhere, down in the reaches of her soul, she knew that this was probably going to be the last time she would be seeing Rory sleeping with her innocence intact. Pretty soon her she would relinquish her innocent self to Jess, in exchange for another step up along the growing up process, and a more adult Rory would come out of that experience. Lorelai could only hope her daughter would go at it with the best possible judgement, and trust her that no life-changing mistakes would be resulting from it.

On that last thought, she scribbled a note to leave on Rory's bedstand and climbed upstairs to go to sleep. Other, equally compelling problems would be waiting for her in the morning, and she needed as much sleep as she could get.

"Mini-me.

It's 4.30 AM and I really don't feel like throwing a screaming fit over the diner-boy in your bed. If we don't bump into each other in the morning, keep your cell on and send said diner-boy home, where he'll deal with a very disgruntled flannel wearing diner owning uncle.

Love you, Sweets.

Lorelai Victoria Gilmore."

10 AM

Rory blinks while reading the note her mother left her a few hours ago. Her mother signs herself with her full name as a joke.

She must not be mad, then.

Upon seeing Jess still asleep next to her she wills herself not to panick, as memories from the night before wash over her, and she relives briefly every moment, a smile tugging gently at her lips. She slips out of bed, relinquishes the warmth of his embrace, careful not to wake him. A change of clothes, a shower, a look in her mother's room, only to find her gone, a last run over to her room, where Jess is still sleeping, the jacket he had been wearing the night before and a little note to slip in his curled fist. She's out the door, under the rain and on her way to Luke's.

"Rory!" Luke cries as soon as she enters the diner, shaking off tiny water droplets "Where is Jess?" Please don't tell me what I think you're going to be telling me. And Lorelai has taken over the building. Again. Please keep the coffee and the junk food stashed...

Rory cringes, and motions Luke upstairs. Please do not feed the gossips, and keep your hands clear of the cages at all times. He obliges.

"Luke, promise you won't kill Jess" she pleads, when she sees Luke just about ready to grab a baseball bat.

"Jess is at my house, still asleep." Bombshell dropped. Bracing self for atomic explosion.

"On the couch" Luke's hopeful reply dies on his lips when Rory shakes her head.

"My bed..." Second bombshell. 5, 4, 3, 2...

"Jesus!" I'm beating the daylights out the punk the minute I find him!

Luke grabs the baseball bat but Rory holds her own in front of the door.

"Luke, please. It's been a difficult night for both of us. Do you really think I would have let him do something I didn't want him to do?" she exchanges a glance with Luke, who relaxes and puts his baseball bat down. Man is he uncomfortable. He looks at Rory, and she seems different. Tired, yes, but... happy. Like the Rory he used to know, before the past year rolled around.

"You sure you're ok?"

"I'm ok. I really am." She looks at him. "I'm only telling you this because you killing Jess will make me very sad" they have to smile at her choice of words. "But I'm telling the man who had me growing up in his diner: nothing happened, so you can relax. But sometime soon..." she looks at Luke, who's battling his desire to cover his ears and hum along with his even bigger desire to kill his nephew, and releases the breath she's been holding when he nods at her.

"Ok. Just... you know... don't let him pressure you". But he doesn't think she needs that advice. This Rory will not do anything more and nothing less than what she chooses.

"Breakfast?"

"To go, please." Luke looks at her expectantly, and she shrugs. "You know both of us well enough to take a wild stab at our breakfast preferences". He smiles, and gets chocolate chips pancakes ready for her, packs muffins for his nephew, coffee and milk to go.

"Oh, and Luke?" Rory calls, before exiting from the diner.

"What?"

"Hold off on kicking him out." She throws him, mistery spilling all over the place. He nods, mesmerized, as she heads off, under the downpour.

Maybe, just maybe. He muses. And goes back to filling coffee cups.

Jess awakens to the distinctive sounds of raindrops tapping on window pane. As he emerges from slumber and grows aware of his surroundings he feels something bothering his palm.

"'Morning Sleeping Shakespeare-Quoting, Gut-Spilling Beauty.

Don't panick if I'm not there when you come out of your slumber. I'll be back with breakfast.

And wake up kisses.

Rory"

Now I'm confused. Then he retrieves the information he filed away during the night, memories wash over him, and everything makes sense again. He should feel ashamed, exposed, and he should run out of there like the hounds of hell were at his heels... but for the life of him, he can't find his jacket. He shrugs, goes to the bathroom, performs his morning routine, and wanders over to the couch with the eternal paperback while waiting for Rory who, Lupus in fabula, steps through the front door with a bag from... Luke's.

I'm leaving for California the minute Luke gets all of my stuff packed. This time New York is just not going to be far enough.

"Please don't look at me like that" she pleads, pouting.

"Huh?" Cuddling, foreplay and sex induce clothes related kleptomania. Love induces kleptomania in general. And exactly why am I analizing the fact that Rory's wearing my jacket?

"Like you're fearing for your life." She drops the food on the coffee table.

"Nice jacket. Looks good on you." She looks like me. He muses, as he takes in both her face and her demeanor, evidence of the emotional tsunami they allowed themselves the luxury to ride the previous night.

"You mean I look like you" I know. I don't regret a minute of it. "Hey Dodger?"

Flashback

"You look nice." Nice? She is fucking beautiful. Perfect. Delicate. And I'm so flawed she'll never want to be within touching distance of me.

Move number 1: the stealing of the book. His.

Move number 2: the nickname Dodger. Hers

"Thank you. What are you doing here?" Stop that. Please. It's wrong to have you coursing through my veins like that because of him. Blood isn't known to listen carefully.

Move number 3: the basket. His

Move number 4: the phone call. Hers

"I moved back." I tried tearing you from inside of me. Keep you at bay. Forbid you entrance. Not possible.

Move number 5: the care package. His

Move number 6: the tutoring. Hers.

"What?" You hate it here, Dodger. You never wanted to be here. Oh God. He's here. Willingly... No.

Move number 7: the car ride. His

Move number 8: the trip to New York. Hers

"I moved back". I had to. It works like this... He has only just recently realized it himself. He knows for a fact she is still oblivious to the reality they've twisted to fit their lies throughout the past year. It is in her nature to deny andrefuse anything short of perfect.You step, and I step as well, keying my reaction off you. Your next action is influenced by my previous one. Are you following, Ms. Gilmore? Hope you've been taking notes, test's on Monday.

Move number 9: the move back to Stars Hollow. His.

"But – what – why?" For me. He's here for me. He came back because I am here.

"Just wanted to" You. I've staken claim to your blue eyed beauty, and I will have it. You cannot pull a stunt like coming to New York because I didn'tsay goodbye, of all things, and not expect me to pull something as big or as stupid to match. If you dance, I dance with you.

She launches herself into his arms, taking a dive to his lips, logical thought and common sense thrown in the river under the bridge, water carrying it away as both become caught up in this unknown, mysterious, undecypherable rush. The sensation is so foreign Rory feels her head spinning, her emotions run astray. Jess can't begin to undestand why his brain suddendly makes like the pages of a soaked book: blurry, wavy, uncomprehensible and useless. It is a whirlwind: months of held back, pent up tension and desire sweep through them, threatening to displace them, uncover them, reveal them. It is then that reality hits both like the proverbial ton of bricks. She all but takes a flying leap and a suicide run to get away from him as soon as possible.

Move number 10: the kiss. Hers.

"Oh my God! Oh my God!" Oh God. Ok, new word here. Jess. Me. Kiss.

"Rory". Wait. My move.

"Don't say a word!" You, me, kissing. Oh God! Dean. I'm horrible.

What Jess Mariano has no inkling of is Rory Gilmore's ability of becoming a full out olymipic sprinter, going for the 100 meter dash gold medal.

If you dance, I dance.

Little does he know this dance is about to turn in a sick, obnoxious version of chess.

End of Flashback

"What?" he eyes her carefully, approaching her.

"Do I get a good morning kiss?" she asks, playfully, teasingly. She is already missing his warmth, his gentle touch and demanding lips, the explosions he sets off deep within her while doing something as innocent and as sinful as holding her hand in his. Feelings have a way of surfacing when least expected, when it is least appropriate for them to be in plain view, for the world to see, judge, partake on. It is even worse when they erupt like magma, lava from a vulcano, and destroy fragile Pompeis so carefully built. Cities so perfectly thought out, in fact, that they lack an alarm system, for it would lead to expect imperfection. And that is just not possible, is it?

Flashback

"There they go again! God, I swear, why can't they just get a room? Or forget a room – get a park bench, or a doorway, or even a strategically placed telephone pole would probably suffice. I mean, girls like Shane – what is it with them? Don't they see what they look like? I know they have mirrors." Why do you flaunt it in front of me? Why are you so set on making me miss something I'm not supposed to be wanting...

"Hey, you talking about me?" Come on, Ror, didn't you say you could care less about Shane?

"No." I just think about you every fucking waking moment.

"I heard you mention Shane." And I care about her even less than you claim to. But you set the stakes, Ror, and I've taken you up on them. Suck it up.

"Shane isn't you." Wow. Smart, Gilmore. A witty come back if I ever heard of one.

"Shane concerns me." For the time being. Until she pulls a kiss and run, she can do whatever she wants.

"Shane concerns me, too – and all women, for that matter." Hello, Suffragette City. Why am I insisting on Shane? Shane isn't the issue. You are. You who don't understand you had me running scared. You who don't want to wait for me to grow used to you. You... whom I want. And I can't have. Dean. I have Dean. There is a Dean in my life.

"You got a problem here?" Your problem being I didn't sit around waiting for you for six weeks? Or your problem being you deciding I wasn't worth you owning up to your side of the deal?

" Nope. Just a little sick of seeing the two of you sitting there. If you're not gonna participate, then why don't you just leave?" Go away. Leave me at least my illusions, seeing you shattered my world with your irruence, and left me to pick up the pieces.

"That works for me. Let's go." Away, far far away from this bunch of freaks.

"No." Hell no. I am staying.

"Why not?" Leave me alone. You won't let me have you, and you claim not to want me, and I pretend to not want you , and I force myself not to let you have me, yet you strive to make it hurtful. Why make it this difficult? Why make it this much harder?

"Because I'm not ready to go." No. I need to look at you.Watch you. See for myself if this is really the world you want, the reality you claim to belong to.

"Oh really?" She feels her resolve crumble, fear shaking her deep within her, heart wrenching, pulled in all sorts of direction.

"Yes, really. I'm gonna sit here as long as I like, and I'm gonna do whatever I like, and if you don't like it, then just ignore me and pay attention to your boyfriend." Don't start crying, he screams, begs, pleads silently with her, as he sees her sapphire eyes swim with the confused, hurtful tears he knows he caused.

He tastes revenge. It's not cold. It's not sweet. It's not satisfactory.

End of Flashback

He feels himself longing for the now familiar feeling of her body pressed agains his. Now he doesn't have to restrainthe lava coursing through his body, for she requests it, owns it, as he owns and commands the fiery magma boiling inside of her. It takes a moment to travel the distance separating them. It takes even less than that for them to tangle fingers, lips, tongues. Parting with personal space has never felt better. His hands slide easily to mess with her hair, to caress the skin close to her mouth, to tickle and tease her neck...

...and to latch onhis jacket's buttons, tearing it open, pushing it off her shoulders and pulling it away from her arms in one fluid motion.

"What... how.. hey!" Rory glares.

"Wanted my jacket back", he shrugs, smirking carelessly at her.

She keeps glaring.

He keeps smirking.

He leans in.

She follows his lead.

And they are dancing again to their soundless tune, cocoon wrapped tightly about their universe.

"Mornin'"

"Mornin'"

"Food!" She jumps from his embrace and heads over to the coffee table. He doesn't object, his own stomach is about to engage in autodigestion.They eat silently, gathering their thoughts and examining the outcome of the previous evening. Rory slings one of her legs on top of Jess's as they work through their breakfast, the fabric of their cocoon wrapped tightly about them for inspection and analysis.There is more than one conversation that needs to be held. But all of that can wait, simply because... it can be talked about without wreaking havoc on either of them. This knowledge singlehandedly adds strenght to their relationship. Another thread to their invisible shroud.

"Sleeping Shakespeare-quoting, gut-spilling beauty?" He asks.

She smiles beautifully, sapphire blues twinkling with mischief.

"I think it fits."

"You would." He deadpans, but can't stop answering her smile with a smirk. He chances a kiss, and is met halfway by her lips crashing with a direct hit on his. She climbs on his lap, mimicking the position she held the previous night, and places butterfly kisses all over his face, as she allows his hands to roam and wander through now charted territory. She tastes of coffe and chocolate, he tastes of milk and blueberries. He bites gently at the tender skin between her neck and her shoulder, and she tilts her head back, heart racing, breath ragged. Her fingers slide up his shirt, requesting him to take it off. He obliges, before bringing both her and himself off the couch to standing positions, giving in to the compelling need of tugging off her blouse, and molding his body to hers.

"Jess?" she draws herself away with a large amount of her willpower doing most of the work.

"What?"

"I may not be there every time you wake up" she whispers "but I'll be whithin reach."

He nods, swallowing whatever it is that it's not allowing him to breathe properly.

"I can deal with that.", his lips feel warm against her ear. She can just master a shudder. And gives in to the pounding heart and the rushing blood.

Of the smoldering kisses and the wandering hands. They play their game of give and take, as he smiles down at her and nudges her arms to wrap around his neck, picking her up, seemingly without noticeable effort, and letting her legs circle around his waist. He starts carrying her to her bedroom when the ringing of the doorbell startles them; enough for him to almost drop her to the floor.

"Jess!" Don't let go of me just yet. Don't let me slip back to reality. It's dull.

"Wait" He overbalances towards the wall, so that her back his pressed against it while she regains her footing. She finds her shirt and throws it back on, shooting him an apologetic look as she runs to the door. I am going to kill whoever had the insane idea to come by this morning. I swear. Stars Hollow, prepare for bloody murder.This time the chalk outline will be all too real.

A/N: Check my bio for messages and thanks to reviewers. M