A/N: Dedicated to Satellite-of-Love because she inspired this fic many moons ago (not sure if you're still active in the fandom, but there you go!). It's taken me around a year, maybe more, to FINALLY get this all down (coincidentally, the time span of this fic is a little over a year). See if you can guess the songs from which the titles come from :)
NOTE: This does not relate to any of my other fics in any way; it's a stand-alone.
Standard disclaimers apply. Including the title of this fic, which comes from the narration at the end of the song "Up Up & Away" by Kid Cudi.
The Machine In The Ghost Within
I. "Lonely Man Cries For Love And Has None."
This is truly the end of it.
As the distance between Jess Mariano and Rory Gilmore grows, all of his emotions drain from his system. At first, they were pulsing everywhere, pounding in his head, bringing about tunnel vision as he sped on the highway. But as he reaches the New York border, he begins to lose them all (anger, embarrassment, guilt, sorrow) and begins to feel a discontenting numbness.
He parks in front of his shitty, rundown apartment and sits in the car for a while. The extraneous sounds of the city are muffled from the driver's seat, but they're welcome in the otherwise piercing silence.
But he can still hear her chanting no, no, no, no in his mind and he just wants to yell back shut up, be quiet, please think about this before you really rip my fucking heart out.
Why couldn't she listen? Why didn't she just tell him to shut the fuck up so she could think and maybe talk about it, this, them.
He gets out of the car and doesn't go inside. If he did, he would OD on his roommate's stuff (who the hell knows what it is). It's all so fucking depressing: his job, his sleeping quarters (strike him dead if he calls that home), his whole goddamn life. All of it.
So he walks. His instincts are screaming at him to turn around, head down, and go back to his room. It's safe. Night in the city is not safe. But he ignores the hounding of his nineteen years of experience and moves.
Eventually he makes it out of the danger zones of the city and heads uptown. The buildings are getting nicer; there are less bums, and more drunken, high society women stumbling in their stilettos.
How such a variety of people can live on this island and still feel a sense of unity baffles him. It reminds him of On the Road, where Kerouac says, "L.A. is the loneliest and most brutal of American cities; New York gets god-awful cold in the winter but there's a feeling of wacky comradeship somewhere in some streets."
Yeah, he got that right.
Jess pulls out a pack of cigarettes and takes one out with his mouth. He hasn't smoked in a few weeks; his smoking habit can only be indulged on every once in a while. Too damn expensive.
He lights the end of the stick and breathes deeply. The nicotine is helping more than the walking.
He's never felt so fucking alone before in his life. He wants to listen to The Moody Blues, but he's been that way since he first turned nineteen. Justin Hayward wrote "Nights in White Satin" when he was nineteen years old and Jess can relate so well to the bastard. Even though he wrote it after receiving a set of satin sheets (and it was probably from another man), the guy obviously wrote the lyrics from his heart.
The song is always on repeat. Yes I love you, oh how I love you.
He wishes that his life could be a little less pathetic and not resemble a popular classic rock song that was briefly resurrected by a Scorsese film.
He's angry with himself for letting it become like this, for letting her fuck him up so much. It's really unfair because she's never going to know about any of this, what she did to him. He wanted to tell her tonight, but she shut him out because he just kept rambling (something he never does) and she was a broken record player, repeating no, no, no, no.
The sky is beginning to lighten, so he turns around and begins his journey back downtown where he belongs. With the sun rising from the horizon, it's easier to feel like he's not so completely alone. The night can do harsh things to you, make you think crazy things like how you hate how alone you are and how you wish the girl who fucked you over could cure that.
II. "New York State Of Mind."
His job doesn't require a lot of thinking, but it requires him to move, so the hustle and bustle of the city keeps his mind busy. Finding that small opening between an elderly couple leisurely strolling arm-in-arm and that poser emo punk kid with his large, bright green headphones – it's a honed skill that can only be mastered by living in a city since birth.
He can easily tell who's a tourist, who's a native, and who lives in the suburbs and is visiting the city, acting like they're just as legitimate as the natives. Those wannabes piss him off the most – they have an annoying strut to their walk, like they own this city. They sure as hell don't – these streets belong to the people who've given blood, sweat, and tears that blend into asphalt and concrete. The wannabes just reap in the benefits of it all.
It's been about two weeks since the wedding and The Dorm Room Incident and Jess doesn't think about it much anymore. It just embarrasses him to linger on it, so he doesn't. He thinks of giving Luke a call, but he has a strong feeling that Luke and Lorelai are becoming Luke And Lorelai and Jess doesn't want to hear about Luke's successful love life while his is Dead On Arrival.
Besides, it's not as if anything has changed since the last time. He's still living in his hellhole of an apartment; he's still a messenger boy (and has some night jobs on the side…), and he still has feelings for that girl.
If nothing ends up changing in the immediate future, he'll call at the end of the month, just to let Luke know that he's still alive.
(Even though that's a bit of a lie).
III. "Welcome To The Good Life."/"I'm On The Pursuit Of Happiness."
Being a messenger doesn't pay for shit and that's why he bartends a couple of nights a week. It's not much since he doesn't have a license, but he has a talent for mixing drinks.
I would like to thank my mother, Liz, for showing me at the age of four how to mix my morning orange juice and what I thought was smelly water into a concoction that would plaster her in the amount of time it took me to read See Spot Run. You're the best!
And the tips for this job are insanely good. Or at least they should be. Since Jess isn't exactly "legitimate," the people at this establishment only want him on slow days, namely weekdays. Usually the place is empty (save for the alcoholics or the occasional group of college kids) and he doesn't get that many tips from these groups of people.
One relatively packed Thursday night – sometime in the beginning of October – Jess is wiping down the counter, vaguely reminiscing of cleaning Luke's diner when a college kid strolls into the bar, a brown, canvas messenger bag hanging off his shoulders. He flicks his head, moving the dirty blonde curls that are hanging in his eyes.
"Whatever's on tap," the guy says casually, taking a seat on the barstool, not quite looking at Jess, as if he's observing his surroundings.
He's under twenty-one. But Jess merely stares at the kid for a few moments, just long enough to make him shift once, before going over to the tap and getting him a glass of beer.
"If anybody asks, you snuck this from someone," Jess mutters as he places the glass in front of the kid.
The kid smiles. "Thanks…" He squints at the makeshift nametag on Jess' chest. "Jess."
Jess nods and takes a recently abandoned whiskey off the counter before leaving the kid alone. After a few minutes of taking a few more orders and cleaning glasses, he notices the kid reading over some papers, which pisses Jess off. Does this kid want everyone to know he's underage?
"Do you want me to get fired?" Jess hisses.
"Huh?" the kid looks up with a furrowed brow.
Jess nods to the papers in the kid's hands. "Your homework."
The kid flushes. "Sorry. It's just bothering me, that's all."
Jess sighs. "I overlooked your too casual order since I did that when I was about fifteen. But pulling out your school work is just…" He shakes his head in annoyance. "How old are you? Seventeen?"
The kid flusters a bit, his eyes narrowing. "Nineteen."
"You're from the suburbs, aren't you?"
The kid nods reluctantly. "Unfortunately."
Jess only nods.
"How old are you?" the guy inquires.
"Almost twenty."
"Well Jesus Christ, don't fucking treat me like you're five years older."
Jess raises his hands, a white towel (most fittingly) in his left. "My job's at stake. Unlike you, I'm not living in a dorm room paid for by my parents."
"Oh…you're not in college?"
Jess snorts. "School isn't my thing." He pauses for a moment. "Where do you go."
"Columbia," the kid mumbles.
Jess smirks. "Another Ivy." He shakes his head, ignoring the kid's confused expression. "What's your name?"
"Adam."
"What's bothering you? Bad grade?" Jess asks, mockery obvious in his voice.
"Kind of. My English professor wants to kick me out of the class."
"Huh."
"I got into this special…creative writing class. And I don't know…the professor has a thing against me. For the past two months he's just been kicking my ass. Ripping my writing apart. And I'm this close to just dropping out."
"Don't."
Adam looks up from his drink, finding Jess wiping the counter. "What?"
"Don't quit. That's giving him what he wants."
Adam smiles a bit. "You're not one for authority, are you?"
"Stick it to the man," Jess quips with sarcasm.
Adam grins. "Right."
Jess looks around the bar, which has emptied a bit. Nobody seems to be demanding his attention, so he pulls out his book from his back pocket. But then he remembers that he's somewhat in a conversation, so he ends up fiddling with the book between his hands.
Adam notices. "What're you reading?"
Jess flashes the cover before hiding it again behind the counter.
"Bukowski. Figures." His eyes then flash. "Hey…since you seem to be an intelligent reader…mind taking a look at my story?"
"Sure. If you pay me."
Adam's face falls. "What?"
"Oh come on. I'm not your buddy who will proof read your homework. You're taking up my time."
Adam sighs in defeat. "Fine. Would ten dollars suffice?"
"Add another five and you got a deal."
"Are you serious?"
"As a heart attack."
Adam grumbles, but reaches into his pocket and pulls out crisp bills, slapping them onto the table sulkily. Jess swipes the money and pockets it. "Okay. Let's see if this professor is right."
"Or wrong," Adam adds.
Jess doesn't comment as he plucks the paper from Adam's grip and begins reading. Without looking up from the paper, he manages to complete the drink orders of two people, managing to tell one off for trying to rip him off a few dollars, thinking Jess wasn't paying attention.
By the time Jess finishes reading, Adam is staring at Jess with a look of slight awe.
That's a look he doesn't get often.
He lifts an eyebrow and Adam lowers his gaze.
Jess breaks his stare and flips a few pages. Finding what he's looking for, Jess hands it back to Adam, pointing at one paragraph. "Get rid of everything and start with this."
Adam's eyes bug from his head. "What?"
"It's not…bad…it's just dry. All of it. Except that paragraph. Go from there." With that, Jess goes back to the other customers.
Jess ignores Adam for a few minutes before Adam gets the hint and leaves, but not before leaving a generous tip.
/
On a relatively warm Tuesday night at the end of the month, Jess is just about to take off his apron when Adam comes bursting in, zeroing in on Jess.
"There you are! I swear I've been trying to find you for over two weeks! Do you not have a set schedule or something?" Adam demands, taking a seat at the bar.
Jess stares at him. "Nope." He finishes taking off the black apron and goes into the back to grab his coat.
"Well I wanted to tell you that I took your advice," Jess hears Adam call.
Jess rolls his eyes as he slips on his jean jacket. "Good for you."
"And my professor loves me now. Because of your help, he's actually taking me seriously! Thank you!" Adam continues, a large grin on his face.
"Uh huh."
"You don't take compliments well, do you?"
Jess shrugs and gets out from behind the bar, buttoning his jacket.
"Well…thanks. I can only see myself doing this. It's kind of my life…you know?"
Jess wishes he knew what he would like his life to be, but he doesn't, and he doesn't like hearing about other people already knowing, especially from those who are close to his age.
"Lucky bastard," Jess mutters under his breath.
"What?"
"Nothin'." Just as Jess heads for the door, he hears Adam call out:
"When I make it out there, I'm thanking you!"
"I'm sure you will," Jess says back, sarcasm evident in his voice, but there's a small smile on his face.
He doesn't know why, but Adam kind of reminds him of Rory. In a nice way, which is a first.
IV. "The Riot Inside Keeps Trying To Visit Me."
Jess is walking home, feeling somewhat good; he got his paycheck, some decent tips, and a new pack of cigarettes in his pocket. Nothing to really complain about.
But once he starts walking through the shifty streets of the city, he begins to feel uneasy.
Since when does Jess Mariano feel uneasy in his territory?
He can't explain it, but he does, and he knows he's giving off a weird vibe, as Liz would say, and he's attracting certain people.
Clenching his fists in his pockets, he walks with his head down, but his mind is on high alert. He hears footsteps behind him and he knows they're not some innocent, random person's.
Thankfully, his building is right around the corner, so he enters it calmly and then runs up the stairs like hell. When he throws the door open, he slams it shut with his body, sliding down until he's on the ground.
He ignores his roommates' groans at the loud noise.
He unwraps his new pack of cigarettes, his hands trembling slightly. What is happening to him?
"Fuck," Jess mutters, trying to light his cigarette, but failing. He pulls the cigarette out of his mouth and takes a deep breath, trying to relax before attempting to use the lighter again.
"You're just begging to be mugged."
Jess glances to the corner of the room, surprised to find the guy who is always sleeping during the day sitting on top of his bed, lacing his shoes.
Jess ignores the guy and tries the lighter again, this time successfully producing a flame.
"What's that supposed to mean," Jess mumbles as he burns the end of the cigarette, inhales deeply and exhales a mouthful of smoke.
"You're trying too hard. It's obvious."
Jess snorts. "I grew up here."
"Well you've obviously lost it. Whatever a New York native is born with."
Jess is about to counter him and say it's impossible to lose something you're born with, but he really doesn't give a fuck.
"You'll get it back, once you're sure of yourself."
"Could you shut up? I don't really care what you have to say," Jess snaps before internally cursing at himself. He's definitely losing his cool.
Someone tosses an empty beer bottle in Jess' general direction, but it misses him by a few feet.
"Whatever. I have to go earn my keep. See you," the guy says, shrugging his backpack onto his shoulder.
Jess stands up to allow his roommate to walk out the door. As soon as the door shuts behind him, Jess grabs the empty beer bottle and chucks it against the wall, pleased to watch it shatter into a million pieces.
"What the fuck was that?" a garbled voice demands.
"Sorry, it slipped," Jess says dully.
/
Jess wakes up earlier than usual, but feels somewhat rested. He knows by the afternoon he'll be crashing but it's fine, that's what Red Bull's for.
The room is chilly, warning the tenants of the brutal winter to come.
He thinks about buying a coffee but he grimaces; imagining the taste makes him sick. Ever since his break up (that sounds so childish and he hates it) with Rory, he stopped drinking coffee. He briefly wonders if she gave up something substantial in her life because it was linked to closely to him.
He doubts it; she probably put away Kerouac and that won't bother her in the slightest; she's not big on the Beats anyway. Maybe that means they're not meant to be.
But he never believed in following any sort of rule-based logic anyway.
Ugh. He doesn't want to think about Rory right now. Thinking about her in the mornings always leads to his being in a shitty mood. Maybe he'll go on a Rory-Purge later today.
He orders tea instead. It's the same kind Luke likes and Jess finds himself enjoying it.
/
He later goes to the library. As a Rory-Purging exercise, he pulls out The Fountainhead and leaves notes in the margins with a black pen, pointing out every flaw, writing his thoughts everywhere. He hopes the next person who picks this up will be forever turned off from Rand.
One less naïve hypocrite in this world, he thinks to himself as he exits.
/
On his day off, he goes to the library again and when he finds a secluded corner to read in, a girl with obnoxiously red hair taps him on the shoulder.
He looks up with a glare. "What?"
She holds up a copy of The Fountainhead. "I saw you writing in this the other day."
"And?"
"You didn't finish it."
Jess closes his book a little. He was expecting some rant about defacing public property and paying for the damages. "What?"
She opens the book around halfway and shows the text to him, pointing to the last page with his margin notes.
"You've only gotten through half the book."
"And you care about this…why."
She shrugs. "I'm curious to know what you think of the ending."
"Well, you'll never know, will you." He goes back to reading his book.
"Are you joking? You're just giving up because you can't stand it anymore?"
Jess closes his book and lets out a sigh. He thinks about responding, but he just gets up and walks away.
He can't explain to a complete stranger that he hasn't gotten past that page ever since that uncomfortably hot summer when he actually waited.
At this point, he doesn't know whether to just scream or push back everything until it can't drive him insane anymore.
V. "Everybody's Got Their Dues In Life To Pay."
He's walking down the streets alone, hands in his jean pockets, when he hears footsteps behind him again.
Thinking quickly, he uses his pocketknife and cuts a hole in his front pocket so he can slip his check into the pocket of his boxers (handy purchase, indeed).
There's someone else to his right…and left? His body tenses so much that he's surprised he's able to continue walking, which he has to do. He's just two blocks away…
"No fucking way – Jess? Jess Mariano?"
Jess stops in his tracks, his brow furrowed. He knows that voice…
He looks up and sees a face he hasn't seen in over two years.
He smirks, cool relief rushing through his body. "Pat? Hey, what goes on."
Pat, his light brown hair pulled back, his cold eyes flashing maniacally, grins as he swaggers over to Jess.
"Wow. I haven't seen you in years! Where have you been?" Pat asks before turning to a kid with his hood shading his face. "This son of a bitch could out drink an Irishman. Never seen him drunk in his life," he continues, pointing at Jess.
Jess chuckles. "Hardly. I could never outdo you." Actually, he never tried to beat Pat; he liked to keep his bearings whenever he hung out with him – he was part of a crowd that Jess was always wary of.
"That's because no one can. All those guys were pussy Irish. Insult to the homeland."
Jess keeps his hands in his pockets as he rocks back and forth on his feet for a bit. He's fully aware of Pat's gang behind him, but doesn't comment on it.
"So, Mariano? Where have you been? I saw you for a bit, like, two years ago. When we were juniors, right? But then you went away again. What was up with that?"
Jess thinks quickly on his feet. "Uncle dragged me back to his house. Stayed until I was eighteen and got the fuck outta there."
Pat nods sympathetically. "That's good. Fuck parents and guardians."
Jess nods, although he doesn't agree at all.
Things have certainly changed from when he was seventeen.
"So, you're back? You should've called me!"
"Didn't think you'd be here. I've been busy working."
Pat scoffs. "Never leaving here. Too much of a New Yorker at heart."
Jess smirks. "What have you been up to?" he inquires.
"I've taken over my brother's work."
Jess' eyebrows rise. "Alex? You mean…?"
"OD'd last fall."
"I'm sorry, man, I respected him," Jess says, not quite sure if he's lying or not. Alex was just like Pat, except scarier; he demanded respect from everyone and it was only given out of complete fear.
Pat nods before patting the back of his shoulder. "I got his name on my back since he was always watching it."
Jess nods, wanting nothing more than to get the fuck away. "I have to go, I have an early morning call, but we should hang out," Jess says after a moment, nodding over Pat shoulder in the direction he has to go.
"Yeah, of course, always the hardworking man," Pat says, not moving.
"See you." Jess strides forward, wanting to pass by Pat, who holds him back.
"Before you go…empty your pockets."
Jess clenches his jaw. "Seriously, Pat? I fuckin' saved your stupid ass at that Freeman party, remember? I think you owe me," Jess snaps before trying to move again, but Pat's grip on Jess' elbow tightens.
"You've gotten soft. One of my boys thought it was you a few weeks ago, but wasn't sure. You're lucky, because he would've beaten the shit out of you. This is me being kind: hand over your cash and you can walk away. I swear," Pat responds in a gentle voice, but there's an obvious threat under it all, scaring Jess.
Jess clenches his right hand into a fist. The gesture is too familiar, but he hasn't used it in over a year. The last time he did it brought about devastating consequences.
He can imagine himself punching Pat in the eye and it would feel pretty fucking good. But then he'd have a price on his head – he would have to leave and he would never be able to come back.
This is almost like paying rent of a different kind.
He takes his hands out of the pockets of his pants and is about to go for his jacket pocket before Pat yells, "HOLD IT! Jack, take it."
The guy with the hooded face strides over and sticks his hand into Jess' pocket, pulling out the wallet. Jess tries to keep calm.
The wallet is black and worn after years of use; it's a piece of shit. He bites the inside of his cheek when he realizes he has barely twenty dollars in there – that's not going to bode well.
Jack takes out the cash and hands it over to Pat, who counts it.
"That's it? Eighteen dollars?" He says it lightly, but Jess knows Pat's trying to scour his brain, hoping Jess will crack.
Jess stares back defiantly. He's good at this. He has to be good at this. "Yup."
Pat stares at Jess and at the money in his hands for a few moments before going up to him and quickly throwing a punch.
The force causes Jess to stumble back. He's suddenly dizzy as he puts a hand over his left cheek. "Fuck!"
"Sorry, but your lack of money upsets me. Had to take it out on you. And the fact that you called me a stupid ass."
Jess removes his hand from his cheek, grimacing. "Now can I go?"
"Yeah."
Jack tosses the wallet back to Jess (all that's left in it is a few receipts and a fucking scrap of paper Rory used as a bookmark for one of his books once).
Jess doesn't say anything else and he doesn't look back as he walks the final two blocks to his apartment. His cheek hurts like a motherfucker, but he feels kind of purged. Lighter. Clearer.
His body is relaxed as he opens the door to his room, not even getting frustrated as it takes him over a minute unlock the fucking the door because the lock's busted for the second time in a month.
There's nobody in the room except for the mysterious roommate/definite drug dealer, who takes one look at Jess and smiles. "So you've been mugged."
Jess laughs a little, but regrets it because it hurts his face. It's going to be a lovely bruise in the morning. "Yeah. Got that out of the way."
"Aren't you supposed to be upset…or angry about it? Never seen someone happy after being mugged."
Jess shrugs, undoing his belt and digging his hands inside his pants. "Nah."
Finding what he was looking for, Jess pulls out his check and tips, a hint of a devilish grin on his face. "That's how you're gonna beat 'em, Butch. They keep underestimating you."
His roommate grins back, understanding the reference.
Jess looks down at his check and takes out his wallet. For a moment he considers taking out that dumb bookmark and throwing it out.
But then that'll mean he's acknowledging the significance of it, which he doesn't want to do.
He's done trying to force closure on this aspect of his life – it's never going to happen. She's always going to have some sort of influence on him and he's just going to have to learn how to put up with it.
Besides, it may just come in handy one day. Maybe he'll start using bookmarks again.
Or maybe he'll start holding hands and skipping with his roommate.
Definitely not. But it's a nice thought.
VI. "Let's Hear It For New York."
He doesn't quite know when the fuck he decided this, but he plans on leaving New York City at the end of the month. He's got an itch to leave, but it's not nearly as bad as the one he had when he was in California.
Still, he has a few things to get done before he can leave.
First, he goes to the library and finishes The Fountainhead. He adds his notes, grimacing the entire time.
It feels like moving on.
For once in his life he has a bit of luck – he finds the redhead girl two aisles away and plops the book in front of her.
He pretends he can't hear her calling after him; he figures being mysterious is better in some cases.
/
Second, he quits his job by telling his boss to go fuck himself – he could've done without saying that and he technically could've waited another week, but the thought of working another day made him want to scream.
Besides, as a girl with a lovely demeanor once said, you can do better.
/
Third, he splurges a little and buys hair gel. He doesn't know why the hell he let his hair go so long without it – he fucking hates his curls.
It takes him about five minutes to fix his hair up as opposed to the hour or so it used to take. Not as crazy as it used to be, but it's still him.
He likes it.
/
The afternoon before he takes off, he goes on a very long walk around the city. Why he's so torn up about leaving astounds him – he knows he needs to leave, but he still wants to stay.
He loves New York City. There, he said it.
He loves the asphalt and dirty concrete under his rubber-soled shoes and he loves the noise and flashing lights. It's got life, character, a pulse and it's so distracting and all encompassing and imperfect and…
There's a different kind of urge that he only felt once before when he was in Luke's apartment, still shivering from the cold February air, a dusty red notebook in front of him.
Slightly bewildered and curious, he heads back to his apartment where his car is parked. The notebook is still in the backseat (where that bra used to be, ironically) and there's a pencil back there, too.
Without much thought, he continues his walking until he reaches Washington Square Park.
He goes to his usual bench (long given up on hoping to find Rory standing there again), sits down, and writes.
By the time he's done, he's relying on the flickering lamp to be able to see his words.
He exhales, his breath looking smoky in the cold air. Winter's practically here.
He always does well in cold weather.
VII. "Here's Your Lifeline."
He drives without any destination in mind. All he knows is that he doesn't want to pass Connecticut (he doesn't want to do anything more stupid).
So he heads south into New Jersey. Of course, he can't stop there because let's face it, who wants to live in that dump? He's not desperate (anymore).
So he keeps going. And going. He veers west because he thinks about Lily and kind of misses the strange girl. Maybe he'll call her when he settles in somewhere.
And then car breaks down outside the city limits of Philadelphia.
"FUCK!" he yells in anger. He was so close to making it – only a few more miles and he could've easily pawned his car for a couple hundred. Now, it's worthless.
He slams his fist into the wheel, the horn blaring for a few seconds before he drops his arm in defeat. Exhaling, he tries to formulate a plan. It's fine. Not ideal by any means, but he can figure out a way to get to civilization.
He tries to remember exactly how many miles he is from Philadelphia, but he's still not sure. Maybe if he walks for a bit, he can check out a sign to see where to go from here.
Maybe he should just sleep and wait until morning.
He crawls into the backseat and closes his eyes, hoping that this night will end as quickly as possible.
/
When Jess hears the loud taps on the window, he shoots up, his eyes glazed but insane; he's ready (for what, he never knows).
It takes him a second to completely wake up and realize that someone is tapping on the car window, a flashlight blinding him.
"Geez," Jess mutters, reaching over to lower the window. "Yes?" he says, clearing his throat when he hears how hoarse his voice is – how long has he been sleeping?
"Get moving – you can't sleep here."
Highway patrol. Shit.
"I can't move – my car's dead," Jess responds shortly.
"Did you call AA?"
He grimaces. "I can't. I don't have money."
The cop, whose face Jess can't make out in the dark and the blinding light of the flashlight, tells him, "Please step out of the vehicle."
Jess holds back some very colorful language as he gets out of the car, his muscles stiff from being curled up too long. He really wants to stretch his back.
"Turn around, hands in front of you."
He follows orders, but not before shooting a glare at the cop, who roughly pats Jess down.
"You can search my car. There's nothing there," Jess tells the cop, who pulls out a pack of unopened cigarettes and a lighter from Jess' leather jacket. "Are you going to confiscate those? I'd rather you didn't."
"Open your trunk."
The cop spends a while in his trunk and Jess wonders what the hell he thinks he's doing. It takes about twenty minutes for the cop to accept that there's nothing incriminating in Jess' car.
The cop stares at him long and hard and Jess continues to stare back.
"How old are you, kid? Eighteen?"
"Nineteen."
"What're you doing?"
"I'm going to Philly."
"To do what?"
"I don't know. Work. I'll figure something out."
"What about your family?"
"Don't have much of one."
There's a tense silence before the cop says, "I read some of your notebook."
Jess clenches his jaw and curls his hands into fists. He put the notebook in the trunk. Nobody, nobody has read what he's written. Is he going to mock it? If so, he doesn't know if he'll be able to rein in his anger – it's the one thing in his life that hasn't been touched by the wretchedness of the outside world.
"You wrote in it?"
Jess gave him a curt nod.
"I would've pinned you as a Kerouac-Hemingway crossover," the cop admits.
Jess tries to keep his face expressionless. "You read?"
"Kesey, Kerouac…the works."
Jess nods.
"You read?"
Jess smirks. "Not much."
"I've seen the books in your bag, don't bullshit me. 'Not much,' my ass."
"Well, what is much?" Jess drawls, unable to keep a smile back.
The cop furrows his brow in confusion before chuckling. "Okay. This is what we're going to do: I'll take you into the city and you're going to find a place to stay and work so you'll pay me back for towing your truck to the dump."
Jess stares at the cop blankly. "You're going to pay for my tow? You don't even know me. I'm a loser nineteen-year-old with a piece of shit car and a stereotypical look of a hoodlum."
"Really? Well I'm a dumb ass cop with nothing better to do than ticketing delinquent children."
Jess grins for a brief moment. "I'll get my things."
The cop nods.
Jess goes into the trunk where his notebook is (and it's opened to a page that he remembers having written when he came to Stars Hollow to pick up the car) and gathers his duffel bag (a few of his books spilling from the top).
Nothing else remains inside except long-dead memories.
His hand lingers on the hood for a moment before he turns his back on it to get inside the cop car.
He'll never see this hunk of metal again; it's rather sad.
Kind of. It's more of a relief, really.
After the car is towed, as he rides away in the front seat, he forces himself to keep his head forward, to not turn back. He knows what that does to him.
Never look back.
VIII. "In A Brand New City."
It seems Jess' car breaking down outside Philadelphia city limits was the last of his rotten luck: he manages to find a cheap place to stay (a complete fluke involving a flier floating with the wind and hitting him in the face) and he's found a few places where he could work. All temporary (hopefully).
He doesn't know why he skipped this city (well he knows why – he heard about the car from Liz, after all). It's kind of cool.
He can't help but grin when he sees the steps of the Philadelphia Museum of Art.
/
Jess finds it strange that he has the most luck getting jobs in cheap diners. He thinks about calling Luke to tell him about Philly, but he's not sure if this is permanent.
During his lunch break, he picks a booth in the corner and writes. He's almost done with the notebook and that scares him, even though it shouldn't.
"Hey, can I take your ketchup? My table ran out."
He glances up to see a tall, dark guy with crazy hair and loose clothes hanging off his thin frame. Jess nods once and allows the tall guy to reach across the table and grab it. Except the tall guy pauses and looks down at what Jess is writing on.
Jess clenches his jaw and shoots the guy a glare. "Yes?"
"You're a writer?"
"No."
"Well, you're certainly busy doing the activity."
"I'm not a writer."
"You're just writing."
"Yeah."
There's a pause and it seems as if the tall guy wants to say something else, but he eventually takes a step back and goes back to his own table.
Jess sighs and goes back to what he was doing. Nosy people.
/
The tall guy seems to be a regular customer, as he comes by every day, but he doesn't bother Jess again, which he's grateful for.
He's running out of pages and his heart is drumming at a million miles a minute because this feels like the end of something really big, but there's something happening as he gets closer to the end of it.
When he writes the final word of whatever the hell this is, his breath stills in his chest, but otherwise, nothing earth shattering occurs. People are talking and eating around him, the sun is still out and his left foot is falling asleep.
He smiles.
/
"What the – " Jess starts, standing up to grab for his notebook, but the tall guy is too goddamn fucking tall and surprisingly quick.
He's engrossed in the notebook and Jess is forced to slip out of the booth to follow the notebook thief out into the street. For the first time in a while, Jess really hates how short he is – this guy has amazingly long strides.
"Who are you?" the guy inquires, still walking quickly and not looking up from the notebook.
"None of your fucking business," Jess growls, reaching out, but the guy merely sidesteps, still not bothering to look up.
After a minute or so, the guy says, "You're good," while jerking the notebook up into the air when Jess tries to make a stealthy grab for it, "This is interesting."
"I don't care what you think."
"You may when I tell you that I work in a publishing house."
Jess stops walking and it's not until the guy is a few feet away when he notices.
"What are you trying to say?" Jess asks calmly, looking into the guy's dark eyes.
"Truncheon Books, located on Locus Street, is possibly interested in publishing this."
"You've barely read two pages," Jess points out.
"True," the guy admits, taking a few steps closer. "But I like what I see so far. And I'm sure my business partner Matthew and the others will like it, too." He hands the notebook back to Jess. "Please stop by."
The guy seems earnest. "I'll think about it," Jess says in a controlled voice.
"Please do. It's 108 Locust Street." With that, the guy turns away. "Name's Chris!" he calls out without looking back. "Ask for me!"
But Jess is looking down at his red notebook, thinking.
108 Locust Street. October eighth. Rory's birthday.
Huh. Blowing out his breath, he wonders if this is a twisted form a fate.
We're supposed to be together.
I should check it out.
Clenching his jaw, he heads back to the diner to work another shift.
He's antsy for it to just end.
/
He heads to the police station a month later, asking for Officer Smith.
Smith comes out and says, "Who are you?"
Jess can tell this guy sucks at lying and just rolls his eyes. "Here's what's owed."
"What are you talking about?"
"Seriously? You got someone to tow my car? From the highway? A literary hoodlum?"
Smith pretends to think and then says, "Nope. Don't recall."
Jess realizes what the cop is trying to do. "I'm not short of cash, it's fine," he grits out. "Take it."
"I'm not taking money from a person I just met."
Jess rolls his eyes a second time. "Fine."
He stuffs the envelope of cash into his pocket and is about to head out when he hears Smith say, "Good luck."
"Thanks."
Jess is surprised he even said that, but the guy kind of deserved something for saving him. Two-way communication.
Maybe he'll give Luke a call today.
IX. "Who The Hell Is He, Anyway?"
"Luke's," Jess hears his uncle's gruff voice on the other end.
"Hey," Jess merely says.
It takes Luke a second. "Jess?"
"Yeah."
"Hey."
Silence for a minute. Geez, this is always so flipping awkward.
"How are you?"
"Good. I'm in Philly."
"Philly? The City of Brotherly Love?" Luke snorts.
"The Birthplace of America," Jess quips.
Silence again.
"So…you're good?" Luke asks.
"Yeah."
Silence.
"I just wanted to tell you where I was. So you know."
"Okay. Thanks for telling me."
"Bye, Luke."
"Bye, Jess. Take care of yourself."
"You, too."
/
Finding the building is easy enough; it's just bringing himself to knock on the door.
That Chris guy probably doesn't even remember Jess – it's been over a month.
But he's curious to find out what, exactly, that guy saw in his notebook and what that cop saw months ago.
What's the meaning behind this fucking notebook that's making people look at him differently.
He knocks on the door and forces himself to breathe properly.
Chris opens the door and after a moment of their staring at each other, he exclaims, "Matthew! You owe me ten bucks! He's here!"
Jess raises an eyebrow.
Chris turns his head back to smile at Jess. "Well? Come on in! We've got work to do."
Without another thought, he steps through the doorway and allows Chris to shut the door behind him. This should feel symbolic in some way, but Jess just wants to forget about it and wonder what the hell's going to happen in the future.
Who is this guy and what the fuck happened to surly Jess Mariano who doesn't think about anything but the now?
He supposes he left part of that guy back in his junky car. He can't say that he misses him, but it's going to take some getting used to, along with everything else happening in his life.
X. "Picture You Beating The Odds."
Holding it in his hands, he feels that this hellish ride is finally coming to an end.
The metaphorical light at the end of the metaphorical tunnel.
About damn time, because he's sick and tired of being run over by metaphorical trains.
XI. "Do You Think About Me Now And Then?"
He thinks that maybe this is it. That he's done with the past and he can move on with his life. After all, he thinks he's earned it. Besides, he's actually on the road to being happy, which is something.
It was a complete mess getting to this point, but at least he made it.
Everything's pretty quiet and calm for a while until several things happen at once:
"Jess, you have to get other places to sell your book."
Jess rolls his eyes as he proofreads a short story by one of the walk ins. It's not the best piece of writing, but he rather enjoys the female protagonist. "Why?"
"Because it's good and it deserves to be read by everyone."
He snorts, ignoring Matthew's babbling.
"You have to go! We're sending you! I already talked to my second cousin outside of Boston and he's interested!"
Jess drops the story and glares at Matthew. "Seriously? Just mail it to him!"
"Don't you want to make money? Most of it would go straight to your pocket. Come on."
Jess clenches his jaw in defeat. Yeah, the traveling is going to be a bitch, but it's going to be the first time he's left Philadelphia in a couple of months; he's afraid that as soon as he leaves, he'll change again or he'll abandon these people.
He grimaces. He's not eighteen anymore – he's responsible and all that shit.
"Fine. Get me all the places. But I'm not paying for gas!"
/
"So…nothing new?"
Jess exhales through his nose. "Nope. You?"
"Well…things are…bad. With…" Luke stutters, deciding to trail off.
Jess raises an eyebrow. "The Gilmores?" he prompts.
"Yeah. Rory and Lorelai are still not speaking to each other…"
"Wait…she's what?"
Silence.
This is the first time they're overtly talking about Rory since that night after TJ's bachelor party.
"It's complicated, but long story short, they haven't talked in weeks."
Jess' grip on his phone tightens. There's something seriously wrong with Rory if she's not talking to Lorelai.
But this is not Jess Mariano's problem, no way, and oh shit, why does he care?
"Sorry, Luke, I have to go…"
"Oh, right, sure. I'll talk to you later."
"Yeah." Jess hangs up and puts his face in his hands. Fuck.
/
It's been a long time since he's caught himself staring at the dark ceiling, thinking about Rory. Some days he liked to think that she was completely out of his existence, but he doubts he'll ever be free of her since she taints his life – without her, this wouldn't be happening to him.
He really doesn't like be indebted to people. And he really doesn't like where his thoughts are leading him.
Fuck, fuck, FUCK.
/
"Luke, where is she?"
"Where's…who?"
Jess exhales impatiently. "Rory. Where is she?"
"Oh, Jess…come on…"
"It's not like that. Just tell me where she lives." He wonders if that will ever be the complete truth.
"What do you think you're doing?"
"Honestly, I don't know."
Luke sighs exasperatingly. "I just don't want you to –"
"I won't. Really. I'm going to be traveling a bit anyway for work and maybe…"
Jess waits patiently for Luke to work everything out in his head. "She's living with her grandparents. And Jess?"
"Yeah?"
"Good luck."
He doesn't know what it's for, but he appreciates it all the same. She can be pretty fucking difficult sometimes. But on a good day, she's kind of his specialty.
And you know what? His days are looking good now.
He pushes his travels a week earlier because he's got "stuff to take care of in New England."
The night before he leaves he hears Matthew's "hushed" whispers, claiming that Jess is leaving early because he just has to "confront his past demons" or some cheesy cliché like that. Everyone calls him out on it and tells him to take his damn sleeping pill already and just go to bed.
While Matthew is dead wrong on certain things, he can be spot on about others.
"Confront his past demons" – he wouldn't call Rory a demon per say, but the basic idea is about right, he guesses.
XII. "Let Me Reintroduce Myself."
On autopilot, his body tends to avoid confrontations where he can seriously get hurt, so it doesn't surprise him when he finds himself roaming the streets of Boston instead of Hartford. It's hard to rewire his survival instincts, but he's working on it.
Instead of inadvertently pushing people away, he draws them in, which is something that so rarely happens (but isn't totally unfamiliar). He sells his books and makes some money and calls it a day.
On the fifth day of his going from town to city to town, he realizes he just has to bite the bullet and do it – the longer he waits the worse it's going to get.
For the first time in his life, he's driving towards something.
He's finally a man with a cause. Not a rebel without a cause.
It's good – especially since those James Dean references were getting so fucking old.
/
He reaches Hartford late at night because traffic sucked, getting from one side of the city (where he sold twenty(!) copies of his book) to the swanky part where the Gilmores live.
There's no car in the driveway and he wonders if Rory will come back soon or if he will have to gather his nerves again tomorrow.
Five minutes later he sees her pull up to the house through his rearview mirror and the whole symbolism of this moment is so goddamn annoying, but fitting. His heart stops in his chest and for a brief moment he wonders if he's malfunctioning.
Feeling like he was given an electric shock, he gets out of the car and makes his way to the gate.
This is it, a new chapter in his life and in their ongoing relationship that's always too complicated outside of themselves. He's on the edge of something completely new again, kind of like that cold night outside a small mechanic's shop, being with the only person his age he ever respected.
He has to do this - for her sake because she deserves it and for his sake because it's his responsibility as someone who actually gives a flying fuck about (some) people other than himself.
He lets out a breath and opens the gate.
"Jess…?"
"Hey," he says.
"Hey," she says back, mixed emotions flickering through her flawless eyes that really do inspire him, even on good days.
This is a beginning.
A/N: FIN. DONE. I feel so fucking accomplished right now. This may not be my best work, but it's been the most gratifying for some bizarre reason. But I hope it was interesting?
Please review!
MissGoalie