A/N: Jesse Lacey so watches Gilmore Girls. ;) Thanks for all the reviews. Once again, I really appreciate the response.
Chapter Sixteen: If it makes you less sad, I will die by your hand
She saunters in some time after two, dressed in a designer gown, wearing jewelry worth more than his annual salary. She is the epitome of high society, burnt out after a long night of forced smiling and idle chatter. He is still in his work uniform, his shirt stained with cheap beer. Her manicured nails undo the buttons carefully.
With his shirt hanging open, she runs a hand along his chest, the knot in her stomach finally beginning to unwind. Unaware of this transformation, he stares down at her, always hesitant to take this further, always giving her a chance to back out. She never does.
She kisses him tenderly and he drags her to the couch, where he falls against the cushions, her smaller body light on top of his. Snaking a hand into her hair, he picks out the bobby pins, throwing them anywhere, not hearing them land. When she pulls away, her updo is a mess, haphazard ringlets in her eyes, strands loose, curling around her neck. He unzips her dress.
She is motionless as he removes her necklace, his fingers clumsy against the diamonds in the dark. He wants to take off the earrings too, but then she is lying against the opposite arm of the couch, easing him down with her. He kisses her again, his hands under her dress, tugging off her nude colored stockings. Her shoes are next, buckles and twists and two inch heels; they land with a thud on the ground, bouncing off the coffee table.
He studies her mussed hair, the smudged lipstick, and she smiles, not understanding. All of this he does on purpose, ripping her socialite status away, and leaving her as any other girl, panting on his living room couch. She is nearly there, almost his equal. But when he leans close, she smells of fine wine and another man's cologne.
She whispers his name, her voice low and silky. She touches his chin, guiding him back down to her. He gives in, gives up, and kisses her quietly, pretending he is someone else.
It's been five days, and he's thought of nothing but her. He lies across the couch, beer in hand, and thinks about the nights when he came home from work and found Rory waiting for him. She timed her departure from dinner parties so that they coincided with the end of his shift. Sometimes they ran into each other in the hallway of his building. She always looked relieved to see him.
He takes a sip of his beer. It's warm and unsatisfying, but he lacks the energy to retrieve another one. He hears a knock on the door, but ignores it in favor of closing his eyes, willing himself to fall asleep.
The knock comes again and again. Too late, Jess remembers he didn't lock up, and Len strolls in, his arms crossed in irritation.
"Hi there," Len greets, sitting on the coffee table.
"Hey." Jess nods in his general direction.
"What happened?"
"Ah, right to the point."
"Jess," Len says sternly, grabbing the beer from him and placing it on the table. "What happened?"
Jess shrugs. "I got fired."
Len rubs his forehead in annoyance. "Yeah, I'm aware. I want to know why."
"I nearly blinded Rory's boyfriend."
"Well." Len folds his hands, placing them in his lap. "And was this provoked?"
Jess's face darkens. "Oh, no. I just thought it'd be hilarious if I bashed his head against the bar."
"Well, why the hell was he – oh." Len nods in understanding. "He find about you two?"
"Good guess, Sherlock."
"Don't be an ass, Jess. I'm trying to be a friend here."
"You're doing a real bang-up job."
Len buries his face in his hands, suppressing a yell of frustration. "Look, Jess, I'm sorry about your job."
"Thanks for the condolences," Jess mutters.
"But doesn't this mean that the path is cleared for you and Rory to be together?" At Jess's silence, Len realizes the deeper problem, and steps back from the subject. "What are you going to do about a job?"
"Get a new one?" Jess suggests, his tone noncommittal.
"Are you okay for now though? Rent and… everything?"
"I'm fine, Len."
Len purses his lips together, unconvinced. "You could move in with me."
"I don't need to live off your father's money, Len. I'm fine."
Len flinches, as he always does when his legacy is mentioned. "If you moved in with me, it would take the pressure off you – "
"I'm fine," Jess snaps, interrupting. He doesn't need a handout. Up until this point, he has managed perfectly well on his own.
Abruptly, Len springs up, suddenly full of life. "Come on. We're going out."
"We are?" Jess asks lazily.
"Yep. There's a party tonight at a friend of mine's and we're going!"
Jess shakes his head, ready to flop on his side. "No thanks."
"I'm not going to let you sit home tonight and drink yourself into a stupor."
"No?"
"No, you're going to come out with me and socially drink yourself into a stupor."
Jess glares up at his friend. He feels himself slowly giving in like so many times before. "Okay," Jess concedes, sitting up. "But we need to make a stop first."
>
Len drops Jess off in front of Rory's house with the promise to pick him up in twenty minutes. As Len peels away, Jess climbs the porch steps, unsure if its courage or fear driving him. Maybe it's both. The door is unlocked and he lets himself in.
Rory's door is open, and he sees her standing in front of her desk, three different jewelry boxes open in front of her. Her black dress is a stark contrast against her pale skin, but she doesn't glow like before. Instead he thinks her ghostly, nearly transparent. He is certain if he waits long enough, she'll fade away.
He approaches from behind, but she doesn't notice, her eyes locked on the array of necklaces. When he puts a hand on her shoulder, she doesn't jump like he expects, but she looks up into the mirror, her face blank when she sees him staring back.
"Hey," he says quietly, still touching her.
"Hi." She studies him for a moment: his unshaven face, the dark circles prominent under his brown eyes. She says nothing but goes back to her jewelry selection, trying so hard not show how nervous she is. She selects something extravagant, something he has taken off her in the past. He expects her to ask for help, but she puts it on herself, stepping away from him to do it.
"Rory."
She turns away from the mirror and something changes, passes between them.
He doesn't know who moves forward first, only that they meet somewhere in the middle. The kiss registers with him in pieces: warmth, pressure, taste. She isn't wearing lipstick. Her hair is up. Her dress is smooth. He wants to remove the necklace and take down her hair; start the deconstruction now, when there is still time.
She leads him over to her bed, and they sit without breaking contact. She grabs a fistful of his shirt, and she pulls him toward her. She's always pulling, he realizes. This is nothing new. These are bad habits, a vicious cycle and that's not what tonight is about. Without a second thought, he bites her bottom lip. Hard.
She rips herself away, a hand over her mouth. "What was that?" she breathes.
"Do you remember when I first pinned you to this bed?" he asks, his knee brushing hers. "You were shaking so hard, you couldn't breathe."
She stands. "I want you to leave."
"What?"
"You're not you tonight," she states. "And I want you to leave."
"What do you mean I'm not me? Of course, I'm me. That was me who just kissed you and that was me who kissed you four years ago."
"I tasted beer," she accuses. "How much did you have to drink tonight?"
"Do you remember how everyone thought I just wanted you for sex? Maybe they were right."
"Stop it," she warns.
"That would make things easier, wouldn't it? Then it would make everything you did okay."
She holds her forehead, and he wonders if she's going to cry. "I know I was more than that. So don't try to say different now." She stands straight, her shoulders back, her head held high. "I know who are you, Jess."
"And who am I?" he demands, jumping up. "Tell me who I am."
"Stop," she says again. "Jess, please just go."
"No, I want to know who I am. I want to know who I have to be to fit."
He tries to keep the desperation out of his tone, but she hears it. She can see it bubbling up within him.
"You can't fit," she tells him softly. "You wouldn't want to. You'd hate it."
He takes a deep breath, certain that he'll turn around now, leave this conversation dangling, never to be finished. But the words rip through his mouth, tearing flesh on their way out. "I don't mean high society, Rory. I mean being with you."
Her features soften and she's someone entirely new. Before now, he didn't notice her hardened appearance, the gray steel in her eyes.
"That's the thing," she says. "You do fit. It's everyone else that doesn't."
This time there is no confusion, no middle. There is only her as she stumbles forward, throwing her arms around his neck. Their foreheads touch for a brief moment before she kisses him, her tongue on his lips, begging for entry. He gives in again and again, his hands on her hips, squeezing.
"Tell me you didn't mean it," she pleads, her mouth on his chin, along his jaw, caressing the skin beneath his ear. "Tell me you didn't mean what you said at the bar." His face is wet, her salty tears slick against his skin, bitter on his tongue.
He is about to tell her he didn't mean a word. He wants to explain that a life without her is only half living, some in-between twilight. He's been in it for weeks now, and he wants out; he wants to curl up with her in that promised New York apartment.
But he can't. He knows he can't. Tonight is about hurting her, showing her that he can forget.
He backs her into her desk and pulls away, keeping an arm on each side. He has her trapped.
"You were using me." He says it like he's testing the statement. He's never said it aloud before.
"What?" She's startled.
"I was backup, something to do when things got bad. This entire time, you were – "
"No," she cuts in. "That's not true."
"Do you know what it was like to have to watch you with Blake all the fucking time? You and Blake, you and Dean…" He shakes his head. "And then there's me."
"When I was with Dean, you pursued me. You knew I had a boyfriend, and you just threw yourself into my life."
"You let me," he accuses. "You let me come in. You let me be a part – "
"Stop."
"You've been using me, Rory. You know you have. You've been telling me lie after lie…"
"No!" She grabs his upper arm, shaking her head vehemently. "No!"
"Everything you've told me, everything you promised – "
He is cut off when a pair of hands grabs him and throws him into Rory's bureau. His head cracks against the edge, and he lets out a groan.
"No means no, asshole," Blake growls.
"No, Blake, it wasn't like that," Rory says but he doesn't pay attention.
"We've talked about this, Jess. I warned you to keep your hands off what's mine." He stands only a couple of feet away, his stitches harsh and ugly in the light. Jess resists the urge to lunge forward and rip them out.
"I want you to stay away from my fiancée," Blake warns.
Jess's eyes widen as Rory freezes, her muscles tight, nearly tearing from the tension. Jess sidesteps Blake and grabs her wrist.
"Hey!" Blake shouts.
"You said it was over," Rory whispers, pleading with him. "You told me to go away."
Jess barely listens as he stares down at the ring. The violence of his emotion is so intense, he feels himself snap in two.
Blake grabs him again, but Jess shrugs him off and stalks out of the room. Rory covers her mouth as she tries so hard to keep the tears from falling. She jumps when she hears glass shatter somewhere in the living room followed by the front door slamming shut.
"Crazy asshole," Blake mutters. He reaches out toward Rory, but she hurries past him, into the kitchen. She stops in front of the sink, certain she is about to be sick. Her palms are cold and clammy, and her knees shake, not strong enough to hold her up. She chokes on a scream that never makes it out.
Behind her, she can feel Blake standing in the doorway of her bedroom. She slips off her ring and drops it, watching as it slides across the bottom of the sink. It falls down the drain and she flips the switch for the garbage disposal. She turns and Blake gives her a funny look.
"Where's your ring?" he asks, eyeing her naked finger.
She keeps her voice calm, even. "I lost it."
>
The house is loud and crowded. Music pours out of unseen speakers and into Jess's body, settling in every available inch. As he stands in front of a counter, downing shots of hard liquor with Len, he feels vibrant, alive, the beat pulsating in time with his heart.
"Isn't this great?" Len yells over the noise.
Jess can't hear a word. He lifts up his glass and Len happily refills it.
The alcohol is acidic as it slides down his throat, leaving a fiery trail in its wake. Jess thrives on it, welcoming the burn; it keeps him up, limbs moving, lungs pumping. A couple of hours ago, the pain of Rory's upcoming wedding had paralyzed him, rendering him limp and useless in Len's car. The entire ride, he stared out the window, holding his breath for minutes at a time, until he was sure he would pass out. Now, everything is different. He remembers how life can be without her.
"More?" Len yells, shaking the bottle. "You want more?"
"More," Jess says, a fuzzy idea forming in his head. More. Yes. All he ever wanted was more.
>
How many dinner parties had she attended over the years? How many auctions, charity events, birthday celebrations? How many meaningless nights spent with her mind already hours ahead to taking off her heels, sliding into bed, sleeping the night off?
Blake escorts her around the room, a hand on her back. Ten years from now, she will be in the exact same position, with the same man, saying the same things to the same people. It terrifies her, this thought, this entrapment. Her future is already decided, a neat package of a summer home in the Hamptons, a penthouse in the city, a mansion in Hartford.
She's never going to work. She's never going to stare at her byline on the front page, watch a playback of her report on television. The only way she'll see Fez and Prague is if she asks her husband for permission, some vacation time; a veiled view from a four star hotel.
And she's so exhausted from this uphill battle that she's ready to surrender. She has accepted what is to come.
"So Rory, how are you this evening?" A tall man asks as he straightens his tie. She thinks she recognizes him as a friend of Blake's, maybe a relative.
"I'm good," she replies through clenched teeth. Blake's grip tightens.
"And how are you, Blake?"
Before Blake can answer, Rory pulls away. "I'm so sorry, but if you'll excuse, I just remembered I have to go slit my wrists."
Blake gapes at her, mortified, as she slinks away, parking herself at an empty table.
"You're really going for that jaded, bitter middle-aged woman look tonight, huh?" Lorelai asks, sitting across from her daughter.
"I don't want to talk," Rory says immediately, wanting to ward off her mother's advice.
"Rory," Lorelai whispers, leaning close. "Don't do this to yourself. If you want me to step in, I will. Okay? I can stop this for you."
"It doesn't matter anymore," Rory tells her, staring down at her hands. "Let Grandma have what she wants."
"Rory…"
"Jess and I are over," she says sadly. "There's no point."
>
Jess, beer in hand, drops next to a pretty girl with black hair, per Len's orders. He takes a swig of his drink as Len plants himself on the arm of the couch.
"Jess, this is Molly," Len introduces, gesturing toward the girl. "Molly, this is Jess."
Before either can say hello, Len plows on. "Now Molly, Jess just went through a really, really messy break-up, so he's a little vulnerable." Jess rolls his eyes, but his friend continues. "He was dating that monstrosity known as half-bitch, half-slut, so you can imagine how bad the fallout was."
Molly nods in mock seriousness, trying to humor Len. "Of course. Terrible, terrible." She pats Jess's knee and sends him a flirtatious smile.
"That's why I thought you and Jess would hit it off. You've both just gotten out of a serious relationship, and you both think the opposite sex is the scum of the earth… Wow, you two just have so much in common."
"Imagine that," Jess mumbles, the words sloshing together as they leave his mouth.
"So I'll leave you two to get to know each other, and I'll be back in a little while. I promise." Len grins before scurrying away.
"He's not coming back, is he?" Molly asks.
"Not a chance in hell," Jess says.
"Good." Molly scoots closer, a hint of something more in her eyes. "He'd just get in the way."
>
Mercifully, she is left alone, with only an occasional man or woman pausing by her table to say hello. She is convinced that she'll survive the night until Blake approaches and requests that they speak in private.
Once they are down the hall, safely away from the party, Blake openly glares at her, his mouth twitching in irritation. "What is wrong with you?"
"Excuse me?"
"That comment you made earlier, and now you're sulking in the corner. You need to get your act together."
She crosses her arms, thoroughly annoyed at this point. "Do not talk to me like I'm five, Blake, I understand."
"I don't think you do. We're engaged now, Rory. Stop acting like the world is ending."
"I'll act however I want," she shoots back. "And if you don't like it, too bad." This strange spark of courage begins to wane as he stares her down. She hopes he'll stalk off soon, so she can go back to sitting by herself.
"Do you want to ruin this?" he demands. "Do you really want to alarm your grandmother? Or do you want your grandfather heading back to work so soon while his health is so up in the air?" Her eyes widen as he presses on. "You're lucky no one found out about Jess, because that would have been a big enough scandal to seriously screw up the Gilmore name, not to mention mine."
When she says nothing, he reaches out, lays a hand on her shoulder. "Look, this is how things are now. So just accept it, alright?"
She nods blankly and doesn't resist when he escorts her back to the party, the trophy wife on his arm.
>
Jess is the one who suggests they go some place quieter to talk. Molly is the one who leads him up the stairs into an empty bedroom. He would admire her audacity but he is too drunk to think of anything but the flimsy sequins of her top, covering the skin underneath.
She pushes him back against the pillows of the bed and kisses him hard. Jess loses his shirt, but doesn't remember the pause, the material sliding over his head, Molly's lustful eyes watching. He is too out of it to care.
They kiss again, his hands lost in the tight curls of her hair. She moves to his neck and he closes his eyes, losing himself in the waves of sensation, the dizziness the alcohol provides. Her fingers trail down his chest as she returns to his lips, her mouth tasting sweet and smoky. She leans back to smile at him and time pauses, shocked out of the room.
Rory sits on his lap, rocking back and forth, waiting for him. Blue eyes and soft curls; so soft that he reaches out, just to feel. The confusion never registers, only a great relief as he gets to his knees, and kisses her madly, pulling at the fabric of her shirt.
Her bra is black and lacy, and he sucks on the skin just above the material, slipping a hand underneath a strap. She lets out an appreciative moan and he pushes her onto her back, his mouth attached to her neck.
He pulls away when he feels a lurch in his stomach, a tumble of cold uncertainty rising in his throat. The image of Rory flickers beneath him, like gray static on a television screen. For a moment, she is blonde and familiar, an image of a ghost.
"Megan?" He doesn't mean to say it out loud, but there it is.
"It's Molly," the girl snaps.
"Oh shit." Jess stands, the ground shaky beneath him, and begins to search for his shirt.
Molly eyes the blue tinge of his skin and frowns. "You look really sick."
He says nothing as he pulls on his shirt and stumbles out the door. Len. He needs to find Len. He needs to lie down and get some sleep; he needs the walls to stop shifting, rising unsteadily on all sides.
Jess reaches the top of the stairs, pausing with his hand on the banister. His vision begins to cloud, polluted by streaks of black. He can only see pieces of the room that waits below, pieces of the people drinking and partying like nothing is wrong. With a groan, he squeezes his eyes shut, the darkness hurtling toward him like an oncoming train.
Seconds later it hits and he feels himself fall.