Disclaimer: The title of this chapter belongs to Radiohead. The characters belong to the show. I'm poor, etc.

A/N: Thank you, LitLove and my wonderful and supportive beta Ara May for being the reason this story exists. Thank you, Guest, for your lovely review, it warmed my heart! :)

'Stace?'

'Rory. I... There's been... Someone broke into my apartment, okay? The police are here and I... Hell, I'm sorry I'm calling this late, but I just had to talk to someone and your name like popped out of the phone and I...'

'Stace, breathe.'

'Breathing.'

'Stace...'

'Mm.'

'It's gonna be fine, okay?'

'Okay.'

'Just stay there till I come?'

'Yeah. Thanks, Ror.'

...

'I'm sorry I made you come, it was kind of a spur of the moment melodramatic attack,' Stacy wiped her nose with a Jack Skellington hankie and sighed, her look trailing the back of a leaving police car.

They were sitting on the front steps of Stacy's building. It was a half after midnight, at best. Maybe later (earlier?).

Rory gave her friend a look and let out a faint smile.

'Of course you would call. C'mon,' she stood up and offered Stacy her hand, 'we're going my place.'

Jess leaned an elbow above his head against the tastefully decorated metal door frame and waited.

He had rung twice.

He imagined her approaching the door, a pair of light blue sheep pajamas and fluffy slippers on, the ones he knew she secretly wore at home when he wasn't around. Her hair would be flying in a halo around her head, hosting static electricity after fighting her way into her pajama top in the dark. He imagined her rubbing her eyes and suppressing a yawn as she fumbled for her keys on the shelf beside the door.

He had rung twice. Who is it? The postman. Shit.

It was really late... early, whatever. Just leave. Come another time. You aren't even supposed to be here.

That was right. He was supposed to be back in Philly, meeting his new editor to be. Shit.

He had rung twice. No one answered yet. Maybe, some people took the sleeping at night thing seriously, for a change.

The door opened.

'Stacy?'

'Jess.'

In a daze, Rory felt the bed sink and a warm hand rest on her belly. Hints of tobacco, cologne and something indiscernible yet too familiar registered at the back of her mind. She smiled in her sleep and snuggled closer.

When she opened her eyes in the morning, they met a pair of brown.

He was resting on his elbow. Awake. Watching. He had his tee and pants still on and that made him look a bit awkward, an urban contrast to her light Egyptian cotton sheets. It would be easy to believe he had just arrived, or he was just about to leave. Lingering. But she had felt his presence. He had spent the night there, wrapped around her.

'Hey.' His voice was low, edged with reluctance. 'Stacy let me in. Mentioned something about burglary. It was late, though. Early.'

Her eyebrows furrowed a little above sleepy blue, but there was a smile already making its way up the corners of her mouth. She liked his rambling. Wasn't quite aware he was capable of proper ramble until now.

Jess watched her intently, trying to gauge her reaction.

Initial shock of finding a guy who's supposed to be eighty miles away in your bed first thing in the morning - checked.

She registered the unspoken question. Her eyes paused on his two-day stubble and the words somehow came out on their own.

'I missed you.'

His features relaxed visibly. He leaned in and touched his nose to her pulse spot, then pressed his lips to the soft skin.

She almost giggled. He almost said the words back.

'Could you stop doing this?'

'No.'

Jess popped another peanut into his mouth and rested back in the sofa, watching her blatantly.

Rory let a breath out through her nose. Just two hours ago they were perfectly alright, lying in her bed, talking, kissing, catching up for the time apart. A long distance relationship wasn't something she was sure she was good at. Wake-up surprises in bed were all right, but could they make up for all the other surprises that came along with him?

Rory threw him another glance. He held it for a while before blinking innocently. Come on, shoot your guns, he was challenging her.

This wasn't gonna be easy. Nothing was ever easy when it came to him.

Or maybe it was. Way too easy. They could effortlessly grow from on to off, took less than a few seconds, and it was some unknown logic that pulled their strings. It was that kind of twisted, illogical logic, the one you could not follow, could not predict, could not master and definitely not plan. Rory Gilmore liked to plan. If there was a Master Planner Of The Year contest, she would've undoubtedly won it. It was what she did. She planned. Scheduled. She couldn't schedule him. And that was alright, at times. It gave her a certain kick, she had to admit. But she couldn't schedule them, either, and it gnawed on her.

'You told me you'd meet him,' she repeated her words from five minutes ago.

Okay, how had they switched from her bedroom to her court room (living room, whatever)... Right. Andrew Miller, the editor. Jess had said he would meet him. (After weeks of blackmailing on her side, he had given in, agreeing to at least meet the guy.)

'Nope,' Jess replied in a tone that implied he found the conversation somewhat entertaining. 'You said I should meet him.'

'Oh, don't try this on me,' she huffed and went round her perfectly white kitchen counter to stand before him, arms crossed. He popped another peanut into his mouth.

She knew better than that. He couldn't bullshit her to and fro, she wouldn't lose her nerve just because he liked pushing her buttons.

'You said you met.'

The last words were said with certain grudge and the full stop at the end almost clinked in her teeth. He had said they had met. Period. He had lied. He had lied to her. She hated it.

'Did I.' He blinked and his blatant look stung. He found nothing disturbing in that. He had lied to her, right in the eye, and he was okay with it.

'Did you meet Andrew? What did he say?'

Excited. She was so damn excited about this. Him. She was excited about him. Jess averted his look.

'Nothing much.'

'He must've said something. Come on, Jess, can't you see I'm dying here? Here. Dead.'

She lay back on her bed, crossing her arms over sheep pajamas covered chest, and closed her eyes. Jess breathed through his nose, his features sharpening for just a brief moment.

'Rory.'

She opened one eye suspiciously.

'I'm dead, remember?' she whispered.

Jess rolled his eyes.

'He would think about it. Wouldn't hold my breath.'

'You're insane,' she jumped off the bed.

Jesus. She was beaming. So overwhelmed with optimism. A schoolgirl taking on a new project. He couldn't be her project, did she know that? He was going to protest, but then her lips were at the corner of his mouth.

'Your book is worth much more credit than you're willing to give it. And so are you.'

He wanted her to stop this. For some reason, her blind faith in him made him sad. Before he even knew it, he would go running around trying to prove her right, and it would make them both liars, then. Now they were simply both lying to her. Started he beating himself in the chest, he would be lying to himself, as well. And this he wasn't sure he knew how to handle. Fuck.

He kissed back faster, harder, trying to stop them both from further lying.

You said you met.

Did I.

He thought she would burst any second now. He took sick pleasure into her burstouts, seeing them as some twisted proof that she cared.

He thought she would start yelling any second now. So did she.

She thought she would ask him what the hell, what's wrong with him, why did he lie to her, why didn't he meet the damn guy she had spent days trying to get through to, why can't he for once do what he's told and follow the damn plan...

But instead of saying all this, she let a breath out. Her face fell. And maybe his did, too. Yeah, just a little, but it did.

'I hate this,' she said quietly, giving up. (That was right. She had to give up on him at some point, didn't she?)

'I hate that you would lie to me and you don't even care.'

He watched her bluntly, thinking this was a lie, as well. (That he didn't care. It was another lie he wanted them both to believe.)

'Think what you do,' he shrugged and stood up.

'You're an idiot,' she said to his back.

'Excuse me?' he turned on his heel.

There, she thought. Some emotion that was true. Pride. He was always true to his pride. So insanely proud. And so insanely self-doubting, she came to know with time.

'You're wasting your time,' she took a step closer, pushing her chances. 'You don't think you're good enough and you find excuses to not put yourself out there and take what you must.'

'Nice analysis, doc.'

Just great. Abstract optimism for the lost soul. Could this get any better?

Rory studied his posture. He was hiding behind his nonchalant demeanor, using physical comfort as a trench where he would pack his defenses and get ready to shoot.

Her brows furrowed.

Why are you living with this crazy idea that you're screwed - screwed by default, screwed beyond fixing?

'It won't go away, Jess,' she sighed and tucked a strand behind her ear.

'You won't know if you keep quitting,' she took another tiny step closer.

She could feel him slipping away. There was this thing about him, behind each door opened, there stood a hundred doors closed. It was just the way he worked.

'And not knowing is much worse than failing.'

'Huh, here come the pompons.'

'No pompons. Just me saying you could do more.'

She tried to sound calm, wise. Guess she didn't, yet she wanted him to know that this - this was true. She believed it to be true.

No, Rory. You could do more. You could do much more than waking up next to a fiery toddler-writer who's best at smoking and writing his eyes off when he can't find anything better to do with himself. Go find a new project, why won't you?

He tended to swear, he tended to dismiss important calls and show unfashionably late for a meeting, his words generally tended to leave a sore mark behind when he delivered a snappy reply, and he wasn't generally a guy who fell in love. All of this, when he did, it easily got uncontrollable. Not quite the task for a former small town princess, even if she had mustered up enough courage to show tough in New York publishing business.

She studied his half-smirk, knowing it was just a last harbor for his anger before he started pouring it out onto the world, on her. Especially on her. It was unnerving to know how much reserve would stream behind his passion. As much as he would appeal to her with his spontaneity, he would push back with his devil-may-care attitude. They were dancing between brazen lie and brutal honesty and this was a rope dance with a blindfold.

They had fallen into a weird silence, not entirely uneasy though.

'Do you know what I first thought when I read your book?' she asked suddenly. He looked up, but she didn't wait for his answer. 'I thought it was the rawest, truest thing I had read through.'

'Then,' she continued, 'I learned it was basically a book about my mom...'

He made a grimace but she didn't leave him a chance to interrupt.

'... and I thought, what the hell, that's why it got to me,' she shook her head thoughtfully and her eyes glittered.

Jess watched her, the thought that she looked kind of beautiful right now crossing his mind absently.

'Then I read 'The Subsect' and...' she made an indefinite gesture in the air '... it was all still there, all that I fell in love with in the first book was still there, and it was still the best damn writing I had come across.'

Jess' mouth felt dry. Right now, he wanted to yell. No. He didn't. He wanted her to. He wanted to have her right there, splay her over her neat leather sofa, raw and needy, mess her nicely combed hair up with his fingers and be all over her, make her scream, lose her mind, fight with him for her own breath, tell him that he, he is the best damn thing she has come across. He imagined writing a third book. A couple of short stories, maybe. Something good. Something he would work his ass off for. He imagined typing for days, just so that he could see that look on her face again. How proud she was. How proud she thought she was with him.

He swallowed with difficulty, snapping out of the reverie.

He was never supposed to be her hero. He was supposed to be her charity case, her bittersweet disappointment.

'Damn,' he shook his head, his half smirk almost gone. 'You're trying to make this about yourself and it's so not...' he licked a lip, a sudden fervor making its way up his throat.

'So not what, Jess?'

He shot her a glare.

'It's so not what?' she insisted, not giving up.

'Asked for,' he said through clenched teeth.

Their eyes locked for a long moment before he gave a nod to no one and left the room, forbidding himself to feel guilty for leaving her just because she thought he was someone great. He wasn't.

He didn't wait to hear her say she was sorry. It wasn't that he couldn't bear her excuse for prying into his personal space. He would fume and bark, but in all honesty, he could get accustomed to someone caring. But he couldn't handle her excuse for believing in him. Saying she was sorry. Sorry because he wasn't that great guy she saw him as. And as selfish as he was, he wanted to make sure he'd left before she had found that out herself.

It was a bitter taste that stained his mouth when he put the bottle down. The place was filthy and crowded. He needed a smoke, and then another drink. Not beer, though. Beer cooled his mind, and tonight, he wanted it clouded. Right now, he wanted to get out of his head. He stepped out of the trashy bar and took a cigarette pack out out of his jeans pocket.

What am I, she had asked once, in one of their most intimate moments. Huh? What am I to you? He had felt tempted to tease her, say something silly about her being a power-hungry ex boss who liked to take advantage of former employees, but the warm trusting glitter in her eyes had stopped him. You're everything I feared you'd be, he had said instead. Good, she had licked her lip, then we're on the same page here.

Nicotine grazed down his lungs, hot and unsatisfying. The evening was muggy and his palms felt sticky as he put the smoke out against a rusty drain pipe on a backstreet. He had started walking to nowhere in particular, led by the mere need to do something with his arms and feet.

He should've been back in Philly ten times by now, but something stopped him from taking the bus at the station and led him into a cheap side of the road bar. He was a pathetic joke of a man, he thought, coming into someone's bedroom in the dead of night, then strolling New York's backstreets aimlessly, trying to suppress the growing sense of guilt that had come to life shortly after he had left her apartment.

What am I. What am I to you?

'Stacy.'

'Jess.'

'Another deja vu, eh? Is... is Rory here?'

'Come on in.'

...

'You know, when my brother called to tell me dad got a heart attack, two years ago, it was late afternoon. We were in the office, getting ready to leave. She was the first to react. She didn't ask questions, did not hesitate, just grabbed my coat and took me by the elbow. She drove all the way to Richmond at top speed, and you would never think a woman like her would speed like this - I'm not exaggerating here, she was Hamilton and I was Nicole.'

Jess quirked an eyebrow.

'Wait, you're from Richmond?'

Stacy gave him a dirty look. He smirked and stood up to leave.

'I should get going. Thanks for the tea, though.'

'Sure.'

They stood at the door.

'I'll tell her you came by,' Stacy offered him a helpful smile.

He gave her a slightly awkward nod, not really having anything to say. He needed to go back to Philly and get some sleep. The last forty-eight hours had taken the better of his judgement.

'Jess?'

'Huh?'

He pressed the elevator call button and turned back.

'That book you forgot.' She handled him the book. The Kite Runner. The made-up excuse they both knew he only delivered to justify his comeback.

She wasn't there, though. Rory was out and Stacy couldn't be of any more help but to offer him tea.

'Yeah. Thanks, Stace.'

Truncheon was quiet. Matt and Chris were probably asleep and there were those few hours in the dead of night when the place was really quiet.

Jess threw his jacket over the sofa and kicked his sneakers off on the way to his bedroom. He was done. Spent. Denicotinized. His ears were still buzzing from the bus ride, his head dizzy with lack of sleep. Hell, he needed sleep.

He stopped at the door and blinked apprehensively. Again, how much did he have tonight? Couple of beers, not nearly enough to give him a kick.

Rory opened her eyes as she felt the shift in the mattress. She turned to face him. They lay for a while, simply watching each other in the darkness, searching each other's reaction.

So that's why she wasn't in her apartment tonight. She had come here, waiting for him to come back. In his bed. While he was waiting for her in her living room.

She sold her hair, he sold his watch. Cosmic irony.

His eyes traced her outlines. She was lying on her side, one palm under her ear, the other curled up into a self-conscious fist beside her thigh. She was lying motionlessly but he could tell it cost her muscle effort. She was breathing in small ups and downs, holding her breath in wait for his reaction.

Something twisted in his stomach. He had discovered that her fragility could do this, cause him to ache physically.

He reached out for her and drew her towards himself, placing her between his feet, putting them on each of her sides, securing her.

She deflated. Air left her lungs in a quick wave and he could feel the tension dissipate. She brought both arms up round his torso and pressed her cheek to his chest.

Her hair smelled like chocolate cookies and coffee. He closed his eyes while a tiny voice whispered 'Better. She can do so much better than you,' at the back of his mind. Yet another one, much quieter, said 'We're on the same page here.' He was probably going crazy, because he was starting to get used to hearing both.