Story Title: Razor

Chapter Title: Make Up Your Mind

Pairing: Lit

Rating: T (for now); some language

Summary: Future Lit; Rory's trying to get a foot in the door in the journalism world and she's dragging Jess along with her against his will. If past performance is the indicator, he wants to avoid any contact with her; professional or otherwise. Story and Chapter titles taken from the Foo Fighter's song, Razor off In Your Honor.

It was five past midnight and he hadn't heard a word from her. Not that staying up late was out of character for him, or that she was holding up some great plans he might have otherwise made. He was stuck in New York, however, because of her, but that wasn't the worst part of this whole ordeal.

The worst part was the waiting for her to call. He wasn't the kind to sit by the phone, hoping it would ring just to hear someone's voice. If he wanted to hear that voice, he could pick up the phone himself, or better, go see them in person. The thought of acting like some damn wallflower, sitting idly by until she decided to reward him with her attention, pissed him off, so much so that he considered not answering the phone when it did ring shortly thereafter. He didn't owe her anything. It hadn't been his fault that she didn't get what she wanted for her interview. He had shown up ready to give answers—glib though they might have been. She was the one that had no questions; or to blame for being too hesitant to ask the ones she had.

Of course, if he blew her off now, he'd have to endure another conversation, but that one would be with his agent, and he'd be throwing around terms like contractual agreements and trite phrases like holding up his end of the bargain. And then he'd pull out the big guns—asking him how the writing was going. He snapped up the phone.

"Hello?"

"It's me. Is now okay?"

No apologies. Nothing in her voice to suggest she was anything but put out.

"Yeah."

"I have a cab, I need an address," she stated, still sounding annoyed, pissed off.

"Uh," he closed his eyes, realizing he didn't have one for the café he'd intended to take her to. He rattled off the address of his hotel.

"Isn't that… The Plaza?"

Now she sounded surprised. He had been too, when he found out where his agent had booked him for his stay. Apparently the trick to being successful was acting successful. He started to inform him that he couldn't afford it, but realized that arguing wouldn't get him very far. It never did with this guy.

"I know how to get there, but I don't know an address. Just meet me in the lobby, and we'll go together."

"Okay. Twenty minutes?"

"Fine."

He wanted to ask her how she figured out how to use that phone of hers. It had too many bells and whistles. Her cell in high school had a Hello Kitty face plate. The only features he thought a phone should ever have was numbers and the send/end buttons. He didn't need to store two hundred numbers on his phone, play music, or take pictures. When he'd told the guy at the wireless company that, he'd gotten a look like he was asking for it to cut his meat for him. He had the 'most basic' model, according to the salesman, but hers… it screamed of bells and whistles. But she was the one that was supposed to ask the questions tonight, so he simply hung up and continued to wait for her.

When she showed up, she looked like Cinderella trying to run back to beat the clock. She was glittery—her dress, her shoes, her make up—she shined. Her hair had been perfectly styled, at one point in the evening. It showed signs of surviving something now; wind or some kind of coat room moment. She stopped in the middle of the lobby, seeing him come out of the elevator. He gave her a cursory nod, and she crossed her arms, pulling her coat closed over her rather revealing dress as she waited in place.

"You all ready?" he asked, noting that she carried only a small purse.

She nodded. "Yeah. Sorry, I know it's late," she blinked and looked down.

He shrugged. "It's fine."

"I wanted to leave sooner, I planned on," she stopped mid-sentence, and he looked at her. He really looked at her. He had been sticking with general glances and the occasional moments of eye contact. She was lost in her own thoughts, distracted and frazzled. Coffee wasn't going to do it tonight.

"You sure everything's okay? Because we can do this another time," he offered.

She took a deep breath. Preparing herself. "It's fine."

He nodded and stepped up beside her, lowering his voice. "I know what you need."

She looked up at him, hope in her eyes. "What?"

"Just come on," he said, offering his arm to her. She nodded quickly, giving him a pressed smile, and linked her arm through his.

XXXX

"Um, Jess?"

He stopped to look at her. Once on the subway, she'd slipped her arm out of his and cocooned herself in her own little world, surrounded by her thoughts instead of all the freaks he was focused on around them. The subway in the middle of the night isn't where one would look to find the echelon of society. The guy in the back of the car was carrying on with several people that didn't seem to be visible to anyone else on the train, the guy in the front of the car was chewing on a glove that wasn't attached to anything but his mouth, and the two guys across from them were arguing very passionately in another language, but it was clear they were having some kind of lover's spat, during which one was repeatedly hitting the other with a rubber chicken. None of this had fazed her, but now, outside of their destination, she took pause.

"What?"

"This place," she frowned.

"Yeah?"

"It's a bar," she pointed at the sign over the door.

"Technically, it's a martini bar," he shrugged.

"I'm just not much of a drinker."

"Neither am I. But sometimes, I make exceptions. Come on, you look like you could use a drink."

She seemed to consider his words. A moment later, she nodded, and he opened the door for her, inviting her into the noise and dimly lit atmosphere. There was soft music coming from the corner, a small stage where a few guys were singing the blues. He hadn't been here in over a year, when he'd let the guys drag him around to celebrate seeing his book in print for the first time. They'd hit nearly every bar in this neighborhood, ending up here only because one of his buddies had become obsessed with following this redhead around in hopes to get her number. He didn't like the idea of any place that didn't serve beer, but he did have to admit they made a damn fine martini, and it was quiet and out of the way. A place to be out of your life, and if it turned out that she didn't need to drown her sorrows, a place where she could conduct her interview.

They ordered, then she spent a few moments scanning the room and awaiting her chocolate martini. He'd ordered a gin martini, not wanting to enjoy it enough to drink it to fast or order too many. As much as he told himself that he was only looking out for himself, he wasn't going to let anything hurt her, either. It was easier to be indifferent to her when she wasn't sitting in front of him, looking so fragile.

"So, how was your party?"

She looked at him, startled. She'd started swaying to the music, but now she sat very still and put her hands in her lap. "Fine, it was fine."

He narrowed his eyes. "Just fine? Wasn't there about a million of your icons there to celebrate your newfound status into the world of journalism?"

She nodded. "Yeah."

He leaned forward. "You're really that jaded?"

Her face softened. "No, the party itself was good. Great, even. Seymour Hersh was there."

He smiled. "Impressive."

"He said I had good style."

Their drinks arrived and he lifted his to her. "Fucking impressive."

She clinked her glass to his and took a long sip. "Yeah. Actually, it was."

"So, what took it down a notch?"

She took another long sip. "Nothing. I don't want to talk about it. How's your stay in New York?"

"Extended. I'm supposed to give this interview, and I'm trapped here until I do."

She smiled, enjoying his game. "I thought you loved New York."

"I'd rather go home. Back to my normal life."

She raised an eyebrow. "The Jess I knew would just go home."

"Yeah, well, a lot has changed."

"How so?"

"For one, if I skip out on the interview, I have to deal with my agent. Do you have an agent?"

She shook her head.

"He's a total head case. It's like having a mother, calling me, asking me how much I've written and how I'm feeling, then telling me to just get off my ass and write even if it's shit," he took a sip of his drink, the strong sting reminding him to go slow. He noticed hers was already half gone, and in another five minutes the server would be by to offer her a second. He wondered if she'd say yes or not.

She searched his face. "How is your writing going?"

He laughed. "Just peachy."

She clicked her tongue. "Don't wanna talk about it?"

He shook his head. "Nope."

She cocked her head. "What if it's one of my interview questions?"

"Is it?"

She shook her head. "No. Just wondering. I was hoping for a sneak peek."

"Why?" he took another sip.

"Because, your writing, its," she let out a deep breath and got a far-off look in her eyes. "It's so unique. I've never read anything before that was so dark, but so full of hope. And it doesn't remind me of anyone, like you were aspiring to be like any of the authors you love. It just sounds like you."

Suddenly, he wanted to grant her the interview. No sarcasm, at least, not in the way he normally used it. He wanted to let her paint the picture of him for the world to see, because she understood who he was.

"Do your interview."

"What? Now? Here?"

He shrugged. "Come on, you know you want to. I'm the hottest thing on the literary scene, and I plan on getting very reclusive. Hard to interview. I'm gonna make Salinger look like a Hilton."

She laughed. "So, this is my shot?"

"Your one and only."

She shook her head. "I'm not prepared," she admitted.

"Yes, you are. Here, hang on a sec," he got up and walked over to the bar. He conversed with the bartender, then moved back to the table to smile at her. She looked at him questioningly, but seemed amused enough to continue to play along.

"What are you doing?"

The waitress came a moment later, with a tray full of shots, limes, and a salt shaker. She unloaded the tray, told them to have fun, and walked off.

"It's a get to know you game, maybe you've played. It's called 'I Never,'" he slid a shot in front of her. "Wanna play?"

She hesitated as she looked at the shot glass. He could see she didn't think it was the smartest course of action. And then, something so ordinary happened to change her mind. Her cell phone rang. She dug it out of her purse, looked at the caller ID, and shoved it back in.

"Who starts?"

He took a shot glass in front of him. "Ladies first."

She nodded. "I never wrote a book."

He shook his head, laughed at her attempt to make him drink, and took the shot, taking his time in draining the lime. "That was a cheap shot."

"Hardy-har-har," she shook her head.

He smirked. "I never met Seymour Hersh."

She narrowed her eyes and did her own shot. She grimaced when the tequila went down, and she shoved the lime in her mouth as fast as she could. He wiped his face of emotion, save for curiosity.

"Not good?"

"Shut up. It's my turn," she scolded.

"Yes, ma'am," he saluted.

"I never thought I'd see you again."

He didn't touch his shot. "I never thought I could write a book."

She took a shot. He raised an eyebrow at that. "I never learned how to drive a motorcycle."

He took a drink. "I never lived on handouts."

She frowned and took a shot. This time she seemed to linger into making the worst part of the tequila burn last. She looked guilty and sad all at once. He wasn't sure if she might walk out on him right that instant, but he was fairly sure they should stop playing. He was about to offer this option, but she met his eyes.

"I never want to get married."

He played with the salt shaker, but didn't pour any on his hand. "I never saw Breakfast at Tiffany's."

She took a drink. "I never eat out of community dishes at parties."

He took a drink. "I never let girls come home with me."

"I never drink this much because I have to be in charge," she said immediately.

"In charge or in control?"

"In charge. I have to make sure he gets home, and his friends get home, because they anticipate their drinking needs and can't walk in a straight line at the end of the night," she complained. "I mean, it's not like I ask much. I just wanted him to be there, on time. I was nervous, and I did it for him! I agreed to this stupid party for him, and he can't even show up on time, not to mention sober."

Jess realized he'd had too many shots when his mouth opened and the following question emerged. "The boyfriend?"

She nodded. "I mean, I'm supposed to do all these things for him, overlook all the personality flaws because he lets me live in his apartment, rent free. But you know what? Money can buy you a lot of things, but it can't make up for everything!"

He reached out and took her hand off the last shot glass. "No, it can't."

She looked at him. "I got this job because of him."

He shook his head. "No, you didn't. Seymour Hersh likes your style."

She smiled weakly. "Yeah. But if it wasn't for Logan's dad," she shook her head.

"So, maybe it would have taken a little longer, but Rory, come on. You wanted it so bad. You were gonna get there on your own."

"Maybe that's why I'm with him," she looked at Jess in panic. "I knew who his dad was; I knew it when all this started."

Jess shook his head. "That's not you."

"It didn't used to be. You aren't the only one that's changed."

He leaned in. "Who says I've changed?"

She smiled. "Look at you. You're this adult."

"So are you."

"No, but you—you're on your own. You're making your own way. No one can say that you haven't gotten where you are completely on your own merits."

He shook his head. "That's not true."

"Is that your way of telling me you slept your way to the top?"

"My book is only doing so well because of your article. If it weren't for you, I'd still be living in obscurity."

"But you still wrote a book. A book! And you make a living, and have a life. Tell me the truth—you wish I hadn't written anything about your book. You probably wish I'd never even read the thing, right?"

He hated to answer her, because his honest answer would just hurt her. She hadn't been trying to do anything but make her own way. "Rory."

She shook her head. "I should go."

She pushed back her chair and made an attempt to stand up. She stumbled on her high heels, and he jumped up to stabilize her.

"You asked."

"I won't run the article. It'll make things easier," she promised.

"You have to."

A thought struck her, immobilized her, and she grabbed hold of his elbows. "I can't go home."

"What are you talking about?"

"I yelled at him for coming in drunk! I called him a juvenile frat boy that refused to grow up. I can't go home drunk!"

He looked at her, still as shiny as she'd been earlier this evening. She was all dressed up, not for him, but it was him she was with now. If possession was nine-tenths of the law, then the boyfriend had no claims right now.

"Come back to the hotel with me."

She shook her head. "You never let girls come home with you."

He smiled. "The hotel isn't my home. I live in Philadelphia."

She blushed. "I didn't mean, I mean, I don't," she shook her head.

He leaned in. "You don't want to come back to the hotel with me?"

Her eyes widened. "Jess."

"I promise I won't take advantage of you."

He must have sounded sincere, because she got into a cab and didn't correct him when he told the cabbie there would be only one stop.