Guys, thank you so much for reviewing and being invested in this story. And thank you for loving Gillian as much as I do! I'm going to update a few more chapters per your requests, so we can follow them a while longer.
This story is so much different than my other fics in that there's not really a conflict or a plot perse, just little home life vignettes of this family, which is fun and relaxing to write. Thanks for being along for the ride!
"Oh, that was amazing. But now I'm all sticky." Gillian wiped away some whipped cream from Jess's bare torso with her finger and stuck it in her mouth. "And I have to wash the sheets tomorrow. Did you ever expect laundry to hold us hostage all the time?"
"Worth it," said Jess, pulling her lips to his and working them until she was moaning again. They were both sticky. Sticky, hot, and completely satisfied. His wife was still wild in bed.
She kissed up his chest tasting him, over his muscles, around his nipple to his throat, growling as she sucked his favorite spot right where his pulse beat only for her.
"Why Paris?" she asked, as she swirled her tongue against his skin.
"We haven't been. And April keeps messaging me about it, trying to get me to butter Luke up for her. I kept thinking about it. Maybe it's 'hoity toity'…"
"Ugh, don't say 'hoity toity', you sound like Luke. You lose fuckability."
"No I don't," he said smiling.
"Why are you always right…" she slid her hand down his stomach to work him in her fingers. He came alive again.
"Oh shit," he said, his hips lifting of their own accord.
"I love how you take care of your little cousin," she whispered against his cheek. His breath was hitching at her deft movements, sliding just right.
"Can we not talk about April while your hand is around my dick?" He threw his head back into the pillow.
"Then let's talk about Paris."
He grunted. "Remember when we first met and you played French maid?"
"Oui," she said.
"Damn that was sexy. We'll actually be living it."
"With Lizzie in the room?"
He caught his breath as she kissed down his muscles to replace her hand with her mouth.
"No, April will be there part of the time. She'll… Oh shit… Gillian…"
"She'll what?" she asked in a breathy whisper.
Jess didn't answer in words.
She wiped her mouth and crawled back up to his face. "We'll get a night to ourselves under the lights of Paris?"
He nodded panting and gasping and held up two fingers.
"Two nights? You bad boy."
Jess grabbed her and rolled her on top of him and she squealed.
"I'm happy," he said. "Like an annoying coffee ad from the 50s happy."
"You've changed husband of mine."
"For the worse?"
"No."
"For the better?"
"Yes. Though, I do miss your leather jacket."
"I'll buy a new one."
"We're business owners now."
"Nervous?"
"A little."
"We'll be ok."
"Was it a misstep to open the bigger location so soon?"
"Soon? I've been working toward that for years."
"I know."
"I have a confession."
Gillian cocked her head as he played with her hair hanging over him. "What?"
"I got you something for your birthday."
"At this rate, you're going to have to get me a yacht to top yourself."
"Put your robe on, come with me."
"How are you still able to walk after what I did to you?"
"It won't be easy."
She slid off him and wrapped her stolen hotel robe around her naked body. One of the only things she had left from her days touring with her old band.
He pulled on his pajama pants and a tee shirt and she followed him down to the basement.
It was pitch black at the bottom of the stairs.
"Close your eyes," he said.
"Um, is this where I get murdered after your years long con to have my baby and steal my money?"
"Just do it."
She huffed and closed her eyes as he flicked the switch, the light yellow and hazy through her eyelids.
"Open them."
She gasped. "Jess, what did you do?"
In front of her was a work space. Not just any workspace. Her old band tee shirts and promotional posters hung on the wall in front of a desk. A red sparkly desk with chrome plating, like a counter at a retro diner. Her favorite mint green typewriter was poised for her fingers on top, with fresh typewriter ribbons and paper. Pictures of her and her sister Elyse when they were little jumping into a pool. Pictures of Lizzie; pictures of all three of them visiting Luke and Liz and TJ in Stars Hollow under that magical autumn tree next to her signed headshot of David Bowie, and her favorite Sylvia Plath poem.
"What… I'm… How…?"
"Elyse helped," he said. "You need a place of your own to write. Our bedroom is not cutting it."
"Since when did you become so thoughtful?" She turned around and wound her arms around his neck, molding her softness to his steady, hard planes, their warm cheeks together.
"You've been… distracted lately. Now I know it's partly because of little Whatsit. But I think it's deeper than that."
"Since when did you become so insightful?" She wiped a tear from her cheek.
"I think you're scared that you've been pigeonholed into this domiciliary identity. Wife, mother, homemaker. But that's not how I see you."
She sniffed trying to hold back the tears. He was pulling out the fears she'd been trying to hide. It was terrifying. "No?"
"No. You're all those things. There's nothing wrong with that and you're damn good at them. But you're also passionate, brilliant, the woman who keeps me on my toes. You just won an award for your outstanding writing. You still play the bass guitar like a fucking goddess. We're not going into our twilight years as fuddy duddies."
"You and these archaic phrases tonight, my god."
"My point is, you're enough for me. Even if you never write another word. If we never take another trip. Just you. You're enough."
Gillian did something she'd never done in front of her husband before in their seven years of marriage. She put her face in her hands and cried. He pulled her into his arms and let her soak his shoulder in her tears.
When she was cried out he smoothed the hair from her face. "Better?"
"I don't like to cry."
"I know."
"Where are you going to write?"
He pointed behind her.
"I didn't even notice," she said looking at the desk adjacent to hers.
"That's because you're selfish."
"Shut up," she said giggling.
His desk was an old beat up green metal monstrosity straight out of a Wes Anderson movie, with posters of the poem 'Howl', and the cover of 'Slaughterhouse-Five', hanging on the wall above.
"So we write together?"
"We always have."
"What about Lizzie?"
He switched on the other light. There was a little play area at the back of the space, a small book case full of books, a play kitchen and a hanging net, making a little tent.
"I love you, you goddamn crazy son of a bitch," she said, kissing him hard on the mouth, as he pulled her against him. His fingers went to the tied sash of her robe.
"What's a son of a bitch?" came a tiny voice at the bottom of the stairs.
They burst apart.
"Lizzie! What are you doing out of bed?"
"Son of a bitch," said Lizzie.
Jess put his fist over his mouth, trying to stifle a laugh.
"It's not funny!" she said smacking him on the arm. "Lizzie, those are grown up words, that I'll never utter again."
Lizzie lifted her arms, and Gillian picked her up, kissing her cheek.
"I got it," said Jess, and took Lizzie from her, throwing their daughter over his shoulder as she shrieked with laughter. He started climbing the stairs. "One glass of water, one 'Goodnight Moon', and it's lights out Shawshank."
Gillian walked over to her new shiny, punk rock desk and picked up the photo of her, Lizzie and Jess. A testament to how much he loved her, since he hated getting his picture taken so much. She kissed it and followed them up the stairs.
