A/N: This chapter should have been done earlier, since I had two snow days this week. And yet, it's still very short. Sorry. That's what you get when I write a multi-chapter fic. Not much to explain about this one, just hope you like it. Please review if you are reading/liking it. Or even if you aren't liking it, feedback would be greatly appreciated. Thanks!
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He wakes to a whirling sound streaming from the bathroom, water pooling in the porcelain sink. The sheets are wrapped tightly around his legs and his fists hold the blankets over his shoulders. The blinds are shuttering open and closed, stark wind howling through the cracks in the windows. She's leaning over the sink, hair escaping her grasp as she sweeps it away from her face. Water trickles from her cheeks, forehead, chin, and his sweatshirt that she has loosely thrown over her frame is dotted with dampness.
"Jess?" she calls, blindly reaching for a towel on the wall.
"Yeah?"
"Just seeing if you were awake."
"I'm not," he retorts, groaning as he squirms beneath the covers. She rolls her eyes, settling the towel over the metal rack. He's standing now, his boxers slack around his disappearing waist, and she peeks from the close proximity. Jutting hips and arms that slope slightly with muscle play in front of her, his skin shifting over the joints as he reaches for a shirt.
"Okay, sorry, carry on," Rory grins, padding into the bedroom. She inspects a pair of jeans draped over the foot of the bed and tosses them to him, a silent blush flooding her face. Her mind slips back to last night and her eyes drift, searching for his cigarette. "So, when did you smoke it?"
"What? Oh. Late, or early… I don't know, you were passed out on the couch," he answers, hiding a smile. "I went outside; I didn't want to bother you."
"Wasn't it snowing?" She squints and retracts the blinds on his double windows. The snow is thick, much more substantial than before, and it has already begun to ice over, glassy and smooth. She thinks of his slender lips curling the grey smoke, fiery lungs beneath his ribs and the bitter taste on his tongue.
"That, or my lighter was just being particularly stubborn," he reasons, his eyebrows arching toward his forehead. A sudden melody fills the space and Rory rushes toward the living room, rifling through her purse.
"Hello?" Pause, a breath. "Logan." Her voice falls flat, a standard pitch, void of sensation or any other distinct feeling. Jess' eyes catch hers, water in coffee; brown overtakes. She quickly conceals her face from view.
It's minutes before he hears even a sound; mild protesting and dissent drain from her mouth as she perches on the arm of a chair. When she hangs up, closes her phone, her face crumples like a paper doll's, creased. He's walking now, tense, because comforting has never been his forte and she's frenetically wiping her eyes with the tips of her fingers. The attempt is futile; her light skin is dirty with day old mascara.
"What happ--- is everything okay?" She performs an odd mix of simultaneously nodding and shaking her head, tossing weak waves of hair over her shoulders.
"We broke up. He, he broke up with me. I knew it was coming, it just feels different, w-worse, when it actually happens, you know?" She manages between unsteady breaths, gathering a tissue in her fingers. Jess is unsure of what to say; he's really never experienced it. Each time, he leaves, and there is no breaking up, no discussion or crying or trying to fix it. His mouth hesitates.
"I'm sorry," he begins, and finds it strange that he's saying these words, but he comes to understand that it is more of a sentiment than an apology.
"Look at me. God, look at me," Rory murmurs, staring at her folded hands. And he looks: her cocktail dress flares slightly away from her narrow waist, the thick tulle snagging her nude hose underneath; his sweatshirt is much too large, and she's swimming in letters spelling The Clash, "London Calling" spread across the small of her back; and her broken doll face, half-closed figurine eyes, those painted lips staggering through breaths.
His gaze catches her off guard, and his hands gradually find her waist, buried in his clothes. She reacts, delayed, moving her fingers to his neck. The distance, however small, becomes a crisis, and she's pulling air from his mouth. They're a mess of crashing lips and cold hands, weaving limbs and flesh as he draws her to him. They're a disaster, undeniably, but she's breathing him in, Jess-oxygen, and right now, it's required.