Disclaimer: I own nothing. Everything up to Jews and Chinese Food is fair game. Past that, it's just where my mind takes over.
Teaser: When Rory and Logan's arrangement goes prematurely sour, his friends take it upon themselves to intervene. Sequel to Keeping it Casual
Story Title: Nothing A Good Friend Wouldn't Do
Chapter Title: Anatomy Of Anger
AN: The muse was a little fickle with me, giving me spurts of information. I hate it when that happens. But alas, another chapter cranked up. Bumped it up to M—they keep getting feisty, and I suppose that warrants it.
Logan strode out past his car; not expecting her to have stopped walking until she'd calmed down. He wound down the expansive driveway toward the main road, his mind swimming through the night's events. Granted there were many things that he couldn't blame her for being upset over—he had a nagging suspicion that her relationship with her father was much more complicated than she let on. But for her to leave over his frustration with his own father … it incensed him. This girl had an audacity he'd never experienced.
He stopped about a hundred feet from the main gates, upon seeing her pacing back and forth in front of them. Her motions were slower than he'd envisioned; she was wandering aimlessly between the gates, kicking dirt up from under her high heeled shoes as she went. She was waiting for something. Or someone.
"Rory," he called out for her attention, but she failed to give it to him. She continued her movements, turning again towards the opposite gate.
"Go back inside."
She'd been crying. Her voice was deep and thick. She hated for anyone to see her cry, and she didn't want him to see her lose control. He wasn't out to comply with her wishes tonight.
"Let's get out of here."
"I am. A cab's coming."
He stepped into her view now, wanting to obtain eye contact. She looked away, her face downcast. He moved in closer and upturned her head with a gentle hand. She'd have to get used to him being there, no matter the scenario.
"Just go."
"No. We need to talk."
"About what? How I'm never going to be good enough for you?"
"That's not true," he dismissed.
"You were right before, to keep this casual."
He stared at her in complete shock from underneath the pile of bricks she'd just unleashed over his head. He tightened his grip on her, for stability. "Why?"
"Because! There's too much in our way. Too much the other doesn't understand."
"What don't I understand?"
"Everything!"
The tears that'd stopped—or she'd deftly held in—came back in full force. She veered backward, but he stepped toward her and held her against his chest. Her tears fell onto his shirt, and he could feel the damp circles forming as the cold wind broke over them.
"You're upset that I don't want to take over my dad's job?"
"No," she groaned, and he closed his eyes in protection as the bright headlights of her summoned cab turned onto the road.
"I have to go," she said numbly.
"Stay, and talk to me," he pleaded.
The cab pulled to a stop in front of the gates as directed. He still held her as their eyes locked on each other.
"Anyone here need a lift?" the cabbie asked through the rolled down window.
"Rory."
"I ain't got all day here, folks."
She looked from Logan to the driver, clearly wavering. "I guess not."
They could hear the guy muttering, expressing his displeasure, as he drove away. He released his grip on her, allowing her to wrap her own arms around herself in place of where his had been just a moment before. She despised the cold that seeped into her skin that he'd blocked from her.
"We should get out of the cold. Where do you want to go?"
"Home."
"Yale?"
"Home. Stars Hollow Home."
He nodded mutely and put his right hand to the small of her back, steering her back up to his car.
XXXX
He sat next to her in his parked car wondering how long she could just sit there in silence without moving before he screamed. There were no cars in the driveway at her mother's house, and no lights on inside the house. They'd not spoken since getting into his car back at his parents' house. There was so much to say, real things to delve into, yet neither had found the words within themselves yet. So he waited.
"Do you want to come in?"
"Yes."
"I can't promise Mom isn't there."
"I know."
"If she is," she began, but thought better of whatever it was she had intended to say. "Let's go."
He nodded, following her lead as she reached for the door handle and let herself out of the leather-covered interior. She didn't have to look back to know he was locking the door automatically with the key ring remote and straightening his shirt at the same time. She shuddered internally at the small, intimate things she knew to be true about this man. But it wasn't enough, not yet.
Once inside the empty house, she hung her coat up on the rack in the front entryway, and reached out for his. He stood in place, not moving until she turned to face him. Her eyes held no clues as to what exactly was to happen in this house, all he saw were her heart-breakingly blue irises.
"What happened? Last night," he started, shaking his head with misunderstanding.
She closed her eyes, hearing his soft words of love and encouragement that he'd spoken into her hair, her skin, her lips. She'd swelled with belief, and lost herself yet again somewhere deep within him. She'd been so sure.
"Why did you have to tell them to lay off of me?"
"Last night?"
"Yes."
"I told them I didn't want them to freak you out, because I love you."
"You told them that?" her voice raising.
"I told them that."
"But … what … why?"
"Because it's true!"
"But it doesn't matter, don't you see that?"
His head hurt at her words, her logic, whatever it was that he couldn't see. "It does matter. Rory, I love you."
"And I love you, but it isn't enough."
He stepped closer to her, as she'd slowly edged toward the front room of the small house. "I need you to tell me what you're thinking. Because the vague answers and trite clichés aren't cutting it for me."
She held his gaze, despite his angered tone. "What do you really know about me, Logan?"
"I know enough."
"Like what? Name one thing that you know, that no one else knows."
"Just one?" he challenged.
"Just one," she affirmed, crossing her arms in protection as well as indignance.
"You're terrified."
She looked up at him in surprise, shaking her head as she took another step towards the arm of the couch. "What?"
"You're terrified," he repeated slowly. "You're afraid that you aren't ever going to make it. You've focused your whole life on one goal, and you push everything else out of your way—the things you think will stop you. Me included."
She opened her mouth to protest, but he went on. "You make it look like you're just a perfectionist, a perfect work ethic with high standards, and you don't have time for the games that other people play."
"You're crazy."
"I'm right," he said with more confidence, invading her personal space as she'd reached the limit of the couch on her backside. He stood close to her, so he was completely enveloping all her senses except taste, though she could swear she could almost taste him at this range too. A Pavlovian response, most likely.
"Your turn."
She shook her head. "I was trying to make a point."
"So am I. Name one thing that you know about me that no one else knows."
"You're afraid you'll be good at it," she said without blinking.
"At what?"
"Taking over for your dad."
He could feel her words somewhere in the pit of his stomach, and he was afraid he'd get physically ill in a moment. He just stared at her, afraid to move. He could feel himself teetering on the edge of something, and either of them could shift this thing in either direction at any given moment.
"I need you to tell me things."
"You don't want to know things about me, you just want to reap the benefits."
"Fuck off!"
"See? You don't want to hear the truth!" she said, throwing her hands up in the air as their voices rose.
"Don't pawn that off on me—you won't tell me anything."
"What am I holding back from you?"
"Your dad, and whatever it is that's going on there."
"I've never brought up my dad to you!"
"Exactly."
"What about you?"
"What about me?"
"Why are you so afraid of becoming your father?"
"Maybe for the same reason you're so afraid of becoming your mother!"
"Go to hell!" she yelled, her eyes closing in frustration the next moment. She felt his lips on hers, angry and bruising. She pushed him back, too hard, sending him near the wall. She stepped around him, in attempts to head to her room.
"You can't just kiss it better, Logan," she growled.
"What the fuck do you want me to do?"
She was taken aback—no matter how many times she'd gotten angry with him, he'd kept a semblance of his cool. He'd moved into the red zone, and as much as she hated the nagging feeling, she definitely got the adage about people getting more turned on when angry. He'd always told her angry worked for her; but now wasn't the time to cave. These issues had been stopping them all along, and they were being honest now.
"I don't know!"
It was as honest as she could be, after all. She didn't know, she just needed him not to be in her sight right now, lest she lose the rest of her control. Was he right? Was she pushing him away because she was scared? She took an unconscious step towards him, her breathing coming harder from the heat that seemed to have welled up in her body.
"What do you want?" he demanded again, letting her come to him.
"I don't," she breathed, reaching out and touching his chest. She barely made contact with two fingers, and as they fell down, he took hold of her straying hand with his. He tugged on her hand, knocking her into him.
"What do you want?" his tone hadn't softened, if anything, he was more persistent, more frustrated. She couldn't blame him, but the fog in her mind multiplied and made it hard to do anything but stare at his lips.
"I want," she choked, reaching her other hand up to touch the lips that were denying her. He pulled that hand away as well, gripping her hands as tightly as he could.
"Fuck it," it was his turn to growl as he gave her what she couldn't ask for. She dug her fingernails into the palms of his hands, not to push him away, but to express the dueling emotions within her—to bring him as close as possible and keep him at a safe bay. Knowing that he was aware of her turmoil, she wanted to fight harder, to keep some control, but he was having none of it. He wrestled his hands out from hers, lifting her up off the ground as his fingers dug into her hips, stumbling them down the hall where she'd begun to retreat earlier. She bit his shoulder as they entered her room, and he used just one hand to rip the fasten to her skirt, causing it to fall off of her hips. She actually popped buttons off of his dress shirt in an attempt to undress him while he backed her down onto the bed, a fact she would only really come to appreciate sometime the next morning. She crashed down, pulling him with her. They continued to fight each other, using hands, mouths, and legs in a power struggle.
Questions remained unanswered as they exhausted themselves, falling asleep where they lay after battle, spent and broken.
