Chapter 4 – Don't want to bring you down
Disclaimer: I own nothing, plus I'm broke, so don't sue please.
A/N: This chapter was probably the hardest (I mean, most difficult for me) thing I've written so far. But it's finally done. Hee. I'm sorry for the wait. Thanks for the reviews. Feedback is always very much appreciated.
To Elise, because you're talented and incredible for so many reasons, including beta-ing. Thanks for loving this when I don't. Double fic wedding! Hee. To Jin, because you're an amazing friend, I love you, and I know you will have a fantastic life. To Katie, because math classes (and school in general) really do suck. And because you always say what I think. To Jessa, because she's so much fun to talk to and she rocks.
The blankets scratch against her skin, and she contemplates the threadbare edges, wondering whether or not she should say anything. But, per usual lately, around him, all thoughts of any kind of pro/con list (mental or otherwise) are swept away, and she is talking. She has no room for inhibition with the worry and the wonder. She's nearly comfortable around him—who'd have thought?
"They itch."
"I'm trying to sleep," he replies.
"They still itch," she counters.
He resists the temptation to swing up and over her, to pull the blankets off. Sleep, he thinks, and knows he can't. Can't, can't, can't. He wants to do another thousand things, and he's weakening, and he will allow himself to consider none of them.
"Do they?" he says, stalling.
She instantly feels guilty for complaining. The important things are that she's here, and he's here, and they're okay. She wants it to be true, even if she isn't entirely sure what constitutes "being okay."
Her thoughts shift to how they really are. Aside from their relationship, the hotel is cheap. And through various means, they have enough, just enough (right?).
"How they are" is not defined by what it feels like when she meets his eyes or by how (and how often) his lips brush hers. It's the amount of cash in their pockets. It's the ability to buy an old car, to get a hotel room, to fix a flat tire, to put excellent credentials on a job application in the real world. She knows he believes this (and worse, believes that she can do it), and she's scared it's the truth, and she hates that it might be.
After awhile, living out of the car would be alright. She imagines nights in the backseat, curled into him, intimate and quiet. She imagines looking out the window at huge dark silhouettes of trucks parked haphazardly around the rest stop; occasionally hearing the groans and grumbles of wheels—eight? ten? sixteen?—as they hurdle the speed bumps at the exit, out to journey the world again.
How uncomfortable it would be, sleeping in a cramped, rusty car, doesn't occur to her. A simple oversight, like losing the only keys you have, eating something you're deathly allergic to, tripping over a root you just don't see.
She shakes herself out of the reverie. They stopped, like she wanted, didn't they?
The apathetic atmosphere is infectious—the soft hum of the heater, the warm air, the leaves rustling outside the window—but somehow it doesn't relax her. She waits, and waits, a fifteen-minute forever, but his breath doesn't even out either.
It is a delicate, proper English tea party.
It is a carefree rock-and-roll dance.
It is both of these things. Each action is taken carefully and slowly, double-checked to be sure that it is the right time. While still, what they say is not thought out, and when it is, you can't tell. He has never been fully capable of recklessness—some inborn sense of city caution? And she—she never had any real opportunities to be. They deal with this and don't acknowledge it. Being spontaneous is different from reckless; spontaneous means you can still care.
And they do. For different reasons. Reasons that are jumbled and confused and mixed between the two of them, but nevertheless there.
She rolls onto her side, facing him, and focuses on his hand. It's perfect like the rest of him; she knows. For a moment she inwardly berates herself for thinking those thoughts, and then realizes, with both pleasure and fear, that there is no longer a reason she shouldn't be.
Her gaze travels up his arm, to his shoulder and then to his face, to his still-open eyes. She meets them silently.
"I can't sleep," she whispers.
"I know." He doesn't continue, doesn't tease her.
Awkwardness. Confusion.
Avoidance. Silence. Distance.
Back to the beginning, always back to the beginning.
She wants to shake things up for once. But the plain truth is…she's terrible at that. Too much practice giving everything not to mess it all up. And damn, it was hard, but she got used to it.
Very, very slowly, she edges closer, expecting him to touch her, to slip his arm around her waist. He stays indifferent, or acting it at least.
"What's up with you?" she asks suddenly.
"Nothing," he answers, trying to convince himself. "Nothing." It's his mantra lately. Everything is going on, everything is happening, everything is wrong: nothing, nothing, nothing.
"Jess." She presses her hand against his, sitting up, flattening it against the wool comforter that, despite the unraveling fibers and wisps of cloth, still feels like ice.
He sits up too. "Look, don't give me that again."
Maybe it comes out more annoyed than he intended, but maybe it doesn't, and right now he can't be sure.
"Don't give you that?" She's shocked more than anything at first, emotions fighting for prime position in the attack on Jess, frustration building. (Maybe this time she just won't let love in the equation.) "What the hell?"
She climbs out of bed and opens the window slightly, breathing in. The air still carries residue of summer—it smells like grass, and city, and rain. She almost feels each breath enter her lungs, freezing her from the inside out. Exhale, inhale, exhale, inhale.
Angry with himself, he follows her, bitterly thinking that she doesn't want this after all, none of it. He should have known she would never grow out of making decisions she later regrets; there is plenty of proof.
And it's three in the morning. Damn it. So much for both of them needing to sleep. He starts rethinking their need to talk, but it's too late, way too late.
"Guess we have a thing for early mornings," she says.
"Guess we do."
It was never supposed to be like this.
There were several contributing factors—there are several—but ultimately, he thinks this is all some kind of game, proving to them that This Will Not Be.
It was always supposed to be Rory and Jess. Friends, maybe. Separate, nothing more. For each of them, the other was just beyond that unspoken boundary (which, in retrospect, probably made it all the more tempting). They were casual acquaintances and that was all, and no one seriously thought that anything needed to be addressed, that anything needed to be said. Lorelai, Luke, literally everyone.
It was obvious: nothing to think about, let alone worry over.
Except every time they tried it—friendship, this impossible expectation, this constant lie—every time they took a deep breath and started again…keeping in touch, talking, walking down the street with minimal contact…
The pretending failed, chemistry sparked, and his lips were on hers again. Unless hers were on his.
In reality, there are plenty of places to hide in an open, public town.
They could prove anyone wrong. They were RoryJess at heart.
But it's always come back to the same problem, the one that tore them apart over and over again: she has more of a future than a rebel-without-a-cause who's never really been to college, despite her convictions that he wasn't a true rebel and that if he was, he had a cause.
RoryJess was never supposed to exist. By anyone's standards, even their own, originally. She had more, he had less, and it simply wasn't right. But none of that mattered, because they knew that, didn't they?
So, also knowing that they wanted it every time, they fought it and broke, fought it and broke. Struggled desperately to be Rory and Jess, well aware that friendship was nothing but a flimsy façade, that the truth would never be acceptable, that she deserved different if nothing better (he knew it), and that they shouldn't have been within range of one another in the first place.
And the whole friendship thing delicately balanced on the line between perfect execution and total disaster.
She left for college, and he stayed, thankful for the easy, necessary, (almost) painless goodbye. (Her breakdown at his apartment the night before she left didn't count.) And then there were those coincidental, random meetings. Walks, coffee, discussions, and kisses that nearly always came with them. It's funny how, in the whole scheme of things, they were both so often in the wrong place at the wrong time.
He refuses to believe it was right.
And she hoped it was, always looking to him for the decision—he who desperately wanted to tell her that damn it all, she had the education, not him.
She should know, she should have known. But then she didn't.
Sometimes they'd try to forget what was happening, would try to awkwardly laugh it off. More often, as time progressed, they'd enjoy it, hiding from the world (around her), and would emerge looking totally innocent. Other than the occasional, barely noticeable glitter on his mouth, or her hair that was no longer quite so neat.
She realizes how stupid they are acting. Standing in a darkened room in front of an open window, taking in the details that aren't available in bright lights, ignoring all the issues that spread out in front of them so easily: a huge proliferation of questions and problems that matter too much for them to discuss or to care about. They haven't spoken for what seems like far too long.
Her, eager, bordering cheerful most of the time, interested, and at the same time, terrified. And him, pushing her away, avoiding questions and kisses and everything she offers. She reruns that night in her head yet again, and wonders what's changed, because something must have.
"Why'd you even let me come?" she bursts out.
He stays quiet and she gets nervous. He watches her, leaning against the windowsill, hair fluttering in the wind. She's beautiful.
Shit.
He controls his anger, swallowing hard, and with it the familiar wave of guilt. For being angry. For not (ever?) saying no. For being the cause of so many of her said reckless decisions. He wants badly to break all his idiotic rules.
"Why did I let you come?" he says incredulously, his voice dangerously quiet.
She just nods.
"As if you were going to leave, under any circumstances. You told me you were coming. We—" He stops. "What was I supposed to say?"
"That's crap."
"Oh yeah?"
Eyes are windows to the soul, isn't that what they say? She shuts hers, willing back hurt, but they fly open again and it hasn't quite worked. "You're telling me you let me come because I wanted to? Because I said so? That doesn't sound like you."
"How would you know?" he snaps.
"I know you! You know I do. You know me…" Her voice trails off, as if she's realizing how sudden this all is.
How she should have a job, and be busy and complaining about getting too little sleep, laughing and joking and unsuccessfully trying to discourage Lorelai and Miss Patty from setting her up with some charming lawyer-to-be. How he should be in some random city, far away from hotels and too close to bars, doing next to nothing but enough, and fighting the urge to look at the only picture he has of her—hidden under his mattress, safe from the contamination of anyone else who might end up on his bed.
But she doesn't realize any of this, and her voice strengthens, and she's back. "You know me," she repeats, because that is what she needs to clarify.
"This is ridiculous, Rory."
"Oh yeah?"
"Yeah." He isn't sure where to cast his gaze, but eventually he settles on her face. "You sleep with me and ask me why I let you come? What do you think I'm going to do, drive away without you?" Drive away and leave you stranded with the word 'mistake' ringing in your ears, he means. Because he wants to be anything but that.
And he feels inordinately stupid right now.
"You were going to," she says icily. "You don't remember?"
He was going to leave before he'd hung around long enough for it to count. Maybe there really is a specific length of time needed for it to be recorded in anyone's memory.
But somehow that didn't quite work out; he wasn't fast enough.
She stares at him, facing that still-impenetrable wall. As hard as she tries, as she's always tried, she can never entirely break through.
"Jess…you should have said no!"
"Fine!"
"What?"
"Just erase the night from your memory, okay? Nothing happened between us. I won't be that person, not your first, if you don't want me to be."
"You can't just change that," she says fiercely. "It doesn't just fix itself."
Guilt, again.
And this time it hurts. He hates that she can cause this—she'll never know how damn powerful she is.
They revert to the staring contest, the silent, meaningless conversation that has become too common. He thinks by now he knows every strand of her hair, every slight movement of her hands, every sparkle in her eyes.
Who had they been fooling, all that time? That was what they always were: more than friends, a lot more. When they met, that sealed it. That she almost agreed to ditch a Stars Hollow party for him, it was enough.
And very quickly, it seemed, college was over, summer was over. It was her first real year of freedom, and she was excited.
They hadn't seen each other in weeks. And really, it was only fitting—to celebrate something like this with a friend. She thought that now, it was okay to arrange something, to plan on it. Nothing ruled their lives any longer, not officially.
He remembers the phone call. He remembers vaguely hoping that their relationship could finally begin to be something more than not-exactly-chaste kisses on street corners, in gift shops, closets. That she could finally have a valid response as to why she dated so little—not never, but little—in the past four years. That, as stupid as it sounds, he could honestly and affirmatively answer the eternal question: "So, you have a girlfriend?" He had hated trying to answer, stumbling over words, being uncertain, but until that point he'd had no real choice.
He allowed himself to hope, which was really fucking stupid.
So, because of how she sounded on the phone—planning to meet him at a nearby restaurant—he expected a caffeine-induced Rory to be grinning and eating and talking nonstop. (A funny, separate part of him wondered what she'd do when he arrived, in front of everyone.)
He didn't expect the shaking voice, the confidence lapse, the tears in her eyes. All he knew was that she called him, so it was probably up to him to make her better.
And he did.
He didn't expect it to involve a room in the hotel next door, nor did he expect to realize how much he'd wanted this all along.
It scared him, how much she meant.
He certainly didn't expect all her insinuating self-degrading comments, and he never expected her to tell him that he deserved better than her.
But she did.
He figured it was her way of telling him it—they—would be okay. It only occurs to him now that maybe she meant it, and he needs to straighten her out.
Finally, the fake friendship frayed and ripped, and it took that for him to figure out, after all that time, that he'd been living a lie to keep another one alive.
This couldn't work.
Damn her stubbornness. It always got them somewhere, and this time…it got them here.
How fantastic.
He doesn't need Stars Hollow. He doesn't need anyone. He only needs her.
Oh god. What is the difference between 'shouldn't' and 'want' and all that crap anyway?
"Rory," he starts.
He kisses her. And she responds, and so does he, deepening it, strengthening it, mostly because he doesn't know what else to do. At first, it's hesitant, but then, it's everything. She tastes incredible, and he's missed this, and what is more romantic than kissing in a cheap hotel room with the window open and uncomfortable blankets and still there's just each other—
Wait.
They've already done that one.
It's a nice kiss, reminiscent of old times: Her approaching him, almost shyly, her blue eyes glittering. Him whispering in her ear, we're supposed to be back in there, someone's gonna miss us. Jumping apart, startled by the sound of a creaking door, and then, relieved, moving back together. There are still no words for that.
"Rory," he says again, breathing hard. The pattern, it's back. They keep pressing the reset button, over and over, unwilling to halt this cycle, no matter how vicious it can be.
"You keep starting things!" she yells. "You start them, and you never finish them, and I don't know where we're going and I don't think you do either, and you…"
"I?"
"You had to go and remind me why I came," she answers, very quietly.
"Well, as long as that's all cleared up," he says sarcastically. "It's not always my fault you don't know what to do."
"It's not like I needed that," she tells him defiantly.
"I know."
"I…I mean, what's stopping us, now?"
He's known this was coming, has known she didn't know, never knew, didn't understand. But still, he didn't mind the waiting stretching out and out, because he hates being the one to break something good, to turn possibility into finality, to be the catalyst for The End.
He always is.
"God, everything," he replies.
She stares.
"You should be…" He shakes his head and moves to sit back on the edge of the bed. "You should be anywhere else, and you know that."
"Who gets to decide that?" she inquires, getting angry.
"It's not a decision! It's just a fact. I know it, everyone knows it. I know you, remember?"
"Maybe you don't," she whispered.
"I think I do."
She doesn't respond.
"What is this, Rory?" He expects an answer this time; he's going to get it. "You and I. Tell me what it is."
"Jess."
"No."
"Jess, you can't just quit this, not this. It's been forever…it's been so long. It's…we can't…I don't know. We just can't."
"We can," he insists. "Sure we can, we can anything, we already did." She blushes. "Yeah, and what was that?"
"You—"
"I don't mean what happened. Look, I expected kissing you. Haven't I always?" He pauses. "I thought you were looking forward to everything, which is in itself a reason you and I can't work!"
"I wasn't," she points out. I'm still not, she wants to say. This is different, this is better…
"Yeah, and why the hell not?"
That was barely four days ago. Oh god, that was only four days ago.
"I…don't know," she tries.
"Talk to me."
"You sound like me."
"Maybe I do."
"I can't."
"I'm really sick of that word," he tells her.
"You ought to be used to it," she says sharply. "You use it enough. You said—"
"You said we had to talk. We're talking. I'm trying."
"Maybe I was wrong," she replies.
Too many maybes, far too many, and no way to solidify them into something positive.
"We both are," he answers, returning to his side of the bed. There is no speaking and no eye contact as they climb back under the covers. He feels drained, upset, but strangely enough relieved to have said it. It's like the combination of a high and a hangover.
And, he thinks, literally feeling her eyes blaze against his back, it is definitely on the hangover side.
He absently wonders if anyone heard them, but actually, he doesn't care. He never cares, isn't that right?
It is past four in the morning, and he's not tired at all. And he wants to kiss the entire conversation away, and she probably wants that too, but that is not an option.
He doesn't understand. Not entirely. He isn't sure he wants to, but god, she's confusing, and captivating, and absolutely mesmerizing, and possibly she deserves to be hated for it.
Maybe this town nears almost perfect, but he's willing to bet they will not be here for long.
Not that he knows, or anything.