Chapter 2 – I know you're faking it but that's okay
Disclaimer: No. Just no. I own little. Actually, I own practically nothing, including the chapter title. It's Yellowcard's. Don't sue please…you'll be paying more to sue me than I own, trust me.
A/N: Thanks so much for the reviews. Feedback is, as always, very much appreciated. =) I apologize for my consistently long dedications…I can't help it. Heh. =D
To Ali, because she's wonderful and has the patience to go through…40 threads? for us! To Lia, because she's amazing and is a great friend. To Lisa, because thank you, and I wish we got to talk more. =) To Mai, because you are amazing. Huge thanks to Elise because you are the best beta ever, and you're just a great person. To Christie, for all the reviews and for making me laugh. Times 22.8. Hee.
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Some idiot was lying when he said the road doesn't go on forever.
It is a long, stretched out ribbon of gray and scratched yellow paint; it curves and it bends but there's no end, and come to think of it, there's no beginning either. It's just there, in front of them, and they go forward, forward, forward, never ending. Never wanting to?
She tucks her hair behind her ear, shaking it out of her face, and rolls down her window, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the frame. He turns away from the cool draft, and she turns toward him for a moment. His seat is moved back; he's finally sleeping.
After lunch, she ran to the car and she made it to the driver's seat first, and he couldn't refuse her after that. It turned into one of those old playful fights—she's missed those. It could have been him yelling, upset, trying to control it all. Being in charge. She sees pain behind those incredible brown eyes, and she can't help but wonder if she is a reason for it, or if she is the reason for it, and she hopes she isn't. However, this time he let it go. They even had fun. She knows he is tired, and no amount of his denying can fool her. She knows him, knows him too well.
And it was true, what she said before. They didn't get much sleep last night.
Her heart wrenches at the memories. Of course she got in the car with him. How could she not? Because especially after that, at any time, you don't let someone leave if you…
She doesn't know what she thinks anymore.
It was him on top of her, her arms around his neck, hands tangled in his hair, and that same look in his eyes she just saw fifteen minutes ago at the parking lot, except then, there was some kind of love in the back of them, hiding. She's sure of that, getting it out there in her thoughts and admitting it. She has learned her lesson about denying love, but she isn't sure he has.
Hesitantly, she reaches out and smoothes back his hair, gently, her hand lingering on his face, but she pulls it away before her cold skin wakes him up. He needs to sleep. Because as soon as he does wake, it'll be another fight with himself (and likely with her) for another all-nighter. It'll mean—she hates to think it, yet it's true—it'll mean more tension.
She resists kissing him. Barely. Keeps her eyes on the road.
The green signs are here now, with the white letters, up on those bridge-like things over the highway. There are arrows pointing to exits; different towns, for people who have specific destinations in mind.
Hah.
He groans. "Rory?" His eyes are open now. She smiles.
"Hey."
He returns her smile, for the first time since they've been in this car. "Hey." He pauses. "You want me to drive now?"
"Good one, Jess," she tells him. "It's been barely half an hour."
"God."
She tilts her head toward him, the wheel steady under her hand. "You have a bad dream or something?" Her smile is now half smirk, half kind. He shakes his head and doesn't answer.
Now she really smirks. "I've been reading signs again."
"First increasing your own motion sickness, now paying attention to things other than the road in front of you." He reaches down to the seat lever and moves his up so it's even with hers. "I'm disappointed in you."
"Oh really?"
"Oh yeah." He reaches out, and so does she, and her hand fits neatly in his. Their fingers lace together, and neither of them looks at the other, but he rubs her palm with his finger, and she squeezes his hand back, and things are okay. They don't want to look at each other; don't want to break this.
He resists pulling away. He enjoys the feeling. It feels almost like forever…like it could be forever, if they wanted it to be.
God, he knows the truth.
She knows too, right? She knows. She acts like she doesn't but she knows. But they've grown up differently, they deal with things differently. He faces things straight on (from around a corner). She forgets them until they're imminent, because that way it's easier.
He doesn't do things the easy way, never has, if only because that's how everyone else seems to do them. He's fallen into this pattern, into this chasm, and scaling the wall out of it is impossible.
Isn't it?
She gently pries his hand off of hers for a moment, turning the dial of the radio. "Do you mind?"
He shakes himself out of the reverie. "No, of course not." It stops the silence, brings another sound between them, another layer. Something else to concentrate on, something other than the very sudden lack of contact as she let go of him.
The road bends and she brings both hands back to the wheel, spinning it, moving it back to straight. He watches: she looks good doing that, looks professional. He imagines her on a dirt road in a third world country, doing the same thing, in a Jeep, looking out the window for small houses, for towns, for stories. He swallows.
The road goes on, on, on, but he is sure this one doesn't lead anywhere like that, and truthfully?
Could he handle that? Seeing all that…reporting it…watching her report it. Being a cool, composed, separate figure when things are crashing all around you? How stable is he really, huh?
Her pale hand contrasts with the dark leather of the steering wheel, resting lightly on it now. He can picture her there, way out somewhere, all alone, sunburnt from hours spent outside, driving and leaning outside as she does, smiling because it's what she's always wanted to see, always wanted to be doing.
He feels so damn guilty.
She reaches out and slips her hand into his again. He sits up a little; reaches over to turn the radio off. "I hate that song." She nods in agreement.
"Me too."
Something, shake this silence, please.
"Jess?"
He turns toward her again. Question. That's good. He'll have something to answer; they'll have something to talk about. She's always been good at that.
The tone of her voice from the night before comes back to him, lower than it usually is, 'I love you' laced into every sentence.
"Where…where are we stopping?" she says uncertainly.
Not that.
He doesn't have the right answers, he doesn't have the right things to say, ever. There are no exceptions. Can't she decide? He doesn't want to stop, because…
Why in hell is she still pretending she doesn't know what this is all about?
She draws her sleeve—no, it's his sleeve really—across her eyes. "Sorry, I'm just—" She stops. "You want that book? The one you said you had in the back?"
He shakes his head. Maybe they're both saving it. Saving it for when they're lying beside each other on another hotel bed, her head on his shoulder and his arm wrapped around her, keeping each other warm, switching the book back and forth, reading paragraphs aloud.
"Where do you want to stop?" he inquires. She shrugs. Yeah, she has as much of an idea as he has. Quietly, he reaches back out and turns the radio up again.
In another hour or so, he wears her down and they trade seats. He drives long into the night; the lights are on, illuminating two golden, long, straight paths in front of them—only the occasional car is anywhere around here tonight. On either side of them are long plains, grass and crops and fences. Sometimes there are trees, half covered with leaves, and half bare, some brittle and dying. Their dark branches contrast sharply with the cloudy, moonlit sky.
After miles, he is greeted by neon motel signs in annoying colors, and reluctantly, he parks. She has at least been pretending to be sleeping this entire time, but he knows she can act when she wants to, and he is both too tired and too apprehensive of what kind of discussion they'd get into, were she awake, to actually try and wake her up, or even just to say her name.
But…
"Rory?" He touches her arm.
She yawns. "Jess?"
His name has been the first thing she's said the last five times he's seen her wake up. He notices these things, and suddenly wonders how hard it would be to peer over her window in, say, ten years, without her knowing he's there; see her wake and say someone else's name.
And when exactly is he going to be peering in her window? The lack of sleep is getting to him. He needs to sleep, she is right. She does too. He knows, though, if…if…
Then he won't say no and sleep. He groans inwardly, reprimanding himself. No. Don't think that, don't think stuff like that. It's against the rules he's imposed upon himself. And on her, without her knowing. What will he do if she breaks those rules?
He'll say nothing, he'll kiss her back. He doesn't have the willpower to resist, nor does he have the absolute belief that he, they, are doing the right thing. They're still running—the running goes on forever. His heart hasn't moved from that scene, beside her, almost two nights ago now, breathing hard, wishing for time to stand still. He's scared hers hasn't either, and he half wants to push her away before he reconnects himself to the dream, the unreal wish, and waits until the possibility is broken.
She smiles right into his eyes. He's leaning over her but quickly pulls away, and a disappointed look crosses her face.
"Is this okay?" he asks her.
"Of course."
He winces. It's no Independence Inn; it's no Dragonfly. He is used to this kind of thing and she isn't, not at all. She has no idea what it's like yet. The 'of course' was for him, because he stopped here.
"Geez." It's a thought aloud. He considers duct tape for his mouth. That would stop the kissing, too. Might be right. Might be good. Might work.
But he can literally see himself ripping it off when she leans close. Geez.
"What?"
"Nothing. It's nothing."
She stares at him, that fierce, unwavering stare of hers. "It's something."
"It doesn't matter."
She gets out of the car and leads the way to the door. "Well, yeah," she tells him. "Nothing matters, right?" He shrugs uncomfortably.
"Rory—"
"Oh, come on."
He catches up with her at the door, holding it open, apologetically. "Listen." He pauses. "Hey, you want me to…you know, get the room?" He shifts a little. "Since you're…"
"Wearing your shirt? I know. I like it." She actually smiles. "I'd be cold otherwise."
He grabs her shoulder and shakes it, affectionately. "We'll both go."
This is the way things work with them. Arguments that disappear in instants. They can't stand to fight; they have each other and that's what they hang on to, for now. The moderate tension is normalcy, but the fights are not, and they tend to forget about them, about the causes for them, purposely. They have always been doing this, to a certain extent, forgiving things that shouldn't be forgiven. Dwelling on things that make no difference.
"Deal," she agrees. They both freeze, and she kisses him, just outside the motel lobby with the plastic doors and red, scratched, painted block letters. Kisses him once, twice, and almost again.
"Can't be patient?" he teases her. It's killing him, it's killing him.
"No." She smiles slyly.
"Just you try." He grins. She grins back, feeling the pressure lessen. (She can't tell when he's faking it anymore.) Or she just doesn't want to know. She doesn't want to believe that he is.
It is not possible that she doesn't know what is going on.
She just can't let things go. He knew that. He knows it. He can't say he is unhappy about this turn of events… His arm slips around her shoulders and he feels her lean on him a little. His other hand goes to his pocket.
"You look nice," he tells her.
She laughs. "Uh huh."
This night passes quickly, more quickly than the one spent in the car, driving along miles of road, miles with no distinction, no landmarks. No nothing. He unbuttons the collar of her shirt. He meant it when he said she looked good. There is an excitement in her eyes he hasn't seen before, or maybe he just doesn't remember.
He brings back the picture of her in the middle of nowhere, driving by herself, and the twinge of pain that comes with it. It is on purpose.
She unbuttons the top of his shirt too, then the second button, and she giggles a little.
He brings his lips to hers, and they fall asleep like this, with a last kiss, crawling under the covers and lying close together. The book is still in the small pocket of Jess' backpack. They will save it for something special: neither says anything to this effect, but the thought is mutual.
Jess wakes randomly at three in the morning or so, carefully adjusting his position so as not to wake her up too. He turns, softly, moving as little as possible, to look at the stars out the window, but all he can see is a shadowy beige motel building.
Again, he fights sleep, but his eyes close despite the effort.