Long before eternity, I caught a glimpse

of your neck and shoulders, your ankles and toes.

And I've been lonely for you from that instant.

That loneliness appeared on earth as this body.

-Li-Young Lee, I Loved You Before I was Born

Chapter Text

It's Wednesday. Jess is grateful for a day of meetings because they keep his mind off his evening plans. He'd be losing it if he was trying to get through a manuscript today. He's kind of losing it anyway, but he manages to keep enough focus on what's in front of him to get through the day. He jogs home to burn off some of the nerves, showers, and dresses quickly.

Rory picked a cocktail bar on Smith. He's been there before, a couple of years ago with some friends, it's a nice spot, not his vibe but not bad, a little on the bougie side but also kind of retro. Brooklyn, her turf (although, really, isn't it all his turf?). He wears his book tour outfit because it always works and he doesn't want to imply anything with his look. Black jeans, black tee, thin silver chain, black denim jacket, Chelsea boots. Not too dressed up or dressed down. Inconspicuous and it looks pretty good on him without looking like he's trying too hard. He is, but no one else needs to know that. He thinks about shaving but leaves the stubble. Maybe it'll make him think twice if he gets any stupid ideas tonight. Probably not, the idiot runs deep in his veins.

He takes the F to Bergen street and walks over. He's a little early so he ducks into the Rite Aid and buys a pack of nicotine gum and chomps two pieces while he takes a walk around the block. When he gets back to the bar she's still not there but now he's on time so he grabs a table. He's answering emails and sipping on an overly fancy bourbon and apricot situation when she arrives ten minutes later in a whirlwind of breathless apologies. He lets her chatter about the editorial meeting that ran long and the train that was held at Canal Street and how she accidentally got off one stop too early because she forgot she wasn't going home so she had to speed walk and wouldn't you know she's wearing the worst shoes. She stops talking suddenly, then says "Why are you looking at me like that?"

"Like what?"

"I don't know, with that shit eating grin?"

"No reason, just forgot about your nervous rambling is all."

"I'm not nervous. Okay, maybe I am," she laughs, "are you?"

"Honestly? Yeah, a little."

"Oh. Well don't be."

"Okay, I won't." He feels one corner of his mouth quirk up. He sips his drink, "It's good to see you."

"You too, I mean it figures we'd bump into each other eventually, we do run in a lot of the same circles."

"That we do."

The waiter comes and takes Rory's order, a fancy gin situation, and they get some appetizers (or small plates according to the menu, barf).

"So is that like your cool writer guy uniform?" She teases.

"Uh, no, what do you mean?"

"Nothing, I just saw you at the ALA conference and the Brooklyn Book Festival last year and the LA Times festival before that and you were dressed exactly the same."

"Oh. I didn't know you were there." Jesus Christ, she has him sweating already. Now he knows that she knows that he is trying too hard.

"You know, book reporter," she shrugs, grinning. "I have to go to the book things. I thought about saying hi at the ALA, but it seemed like you were swarmed and I didn't want to bother you."

"You should always say hi. I would much rather talk to you than anyone I have to talk to at those things. As you might expect, working a room isn't really my favorite activity."

"I saw in Publisher's Weekly that you have a new book coming out soon, that's exciting."

Yeah, it's…I don't know, it's something. I'm a little nervous about it. I don't know if people are going to like it. It's got a lot of fantasy elements, which is new for me, and I really fucking hope Liz doesn't suddenly get it in her head to start reading my work cuz there's some stuff in there that I didn't really cook the booze out of, if you know what I mean."

"I do. I thought maybe there was some stuff in Straw Man and By Degrees that wasn't all the way cooked out, though I guess I wouldn't know for sure."

"Yeah, there was. There definitely was."

There's a pause while they sip their drinks. Her eyes are blue fire in the candlelight.

"So what's new with you? New York Times, that's a big deal, how are you liking it?"

"It's good, it's great, actually," she grins, "I'm really happy. It's not exactly what I pictured myself doing, but I think it really suits me."

"I still say you could have been Christiane Amanpour if you wanted."

"Maybe, but I think that wasn't really what I wanted after all. I just wanted to read and write and I wanted my life to be exciting."

"And is it exciting?"

"Yeah, exciting enough for me, anyway. I think I just had an idea of what an interesting life was, and I didn't really think about what I was interested in and what would make me happy. Being an international correspondent is interesting, but being a literary reporter is interesting to me, you know?"

Jess lifts his glass, "To making yourself happy."

She clinks her coupe glass against his tumbler and they both drink. He feels that old warm feeling of home that always comes with Rory's presence. Like he's where he's supposed to be.

"I heard Doula was up here visiting a couple of weeks ago. That's nice, what did you guys do?"

"Oh, you know, spent a day in my apartment listening to records because she had a fight with her girlfriend, got soup dumplings, walked the high line, saw the Edward Hopper thing at the Whitney."

"God it's crazy that she's sixteen."

"I know. How can someone who was born when I was an adult be almost completely grown? It's way too sunrise sunset for me."

"I know what you mean. GiGi's going to college this year. I mean, we're not as close as you and Doula, but it's still wild. Like I was a fully formed person when she was born and now she's grown and has a boyfriend and a life and everything."

"Well, we're not exactly spring chickens anymore Rory."

"Bite your tongue, forty is the new thirty, so technically we're still in our twenties."

"Yeah, tell that to my knees."

"I know. I fell asleep on the couch the other night and I couldn't turn my head to the left for three days."

"How very Derek Zoolander of you."

"Well, I am really ridiculously good looking."

"That you are," he takes a drink.

She blushes. It's been awhile since someone openly appreciated her appearance like that. "I got that Sneaks album. So good."

"Oh yeah? One of my favorites, even if some of the lyrics are just kind of nonsense."

"It's so weird, when we were kids I always swore I would keep up with new music forever and not get stuck in my ways, but…"

"But it's hard to want to listen to music you don't already know now?"

"Yeah, it is."

"Yeah, I think it's harder for our brains to carve out new pathways of enjoyment as we get older. Neuroplasticity and all that. I think the more new music I listen to the more I can appreciate it, but at the end of the day I still want something I already know all the words to."

"Top five albums for the end of the day, go," she says, sipping her cocktail.

"Oh shit, putting me in the spot. Hmmm. Clash Combat Rock, Pavement Wowee Zowee, Built to Spill Keep It Like A Secret, The Smiths Hatful of Hollow - I know, I know, Morrissey sucks, Velvet Underground Loaded."

"No bad, not bad. I didn't realize you were a Smiths fan."

"Me, the boy with the thorn in his side? Of course I'm a fan."

Rory laughs, a sparkly, rich laugh that feels like fireworks in his chest. He can't help smiling at her. "How about you, same question."

She thinks, rolling her bottom lip between her teeth. "Okay, The Velvet Underground and Nico , Animal Collective - Feels , Joni Mitchell - Clouds , Leonard Cohen - I'm Your Man , Belle and Sebastian - Tigermilk ."

"So melancholy at the end of the day."

"What can I say, I find sad songs relaxing."

"I get that. There's something cozy about bummer music."

"Yeah, and the older I get and the happier I am, the more I like it."

After drinks he asks if she's hungry and unsurprisingly she is, so they walk over to Chez Moi and they get the duck confit and then they walk to the promenade. It's easy, too easy. The conversation, the flirtation. It feels like he found a perfectly tailored jacket he forgot he had in the back of the closet, he hasn't worn it in years but it still fits just right.

It's weird, he's seen her a few times over the years, at Thanksgiving or Christmas, once on Memorial Day when Luke had a barbecue. In that context it was always friendly and familiar but there was a distance in it, something they were both holding at bay, and he doesn't feel that tonight.

They stand at the railing, looking out at the glittering city in front of them, lady liberty smiling benevolently from their left.

"I always knew I'd live here somehow," Rory says. "It's like it was always pulling me in like a magnet."

"Yeah, I always knew I'd come back. When I left the first time, second time, third time, I knew this place wasn't done with me yet. After the third time though I had to let it go for a while. It almost ate me up that time."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah, finding Truncheon and moving to Philly was my salvation. If that hadn't happened, I don't know where I would have ended up. Either dead or flipping burgers at Luke's for the rest of my life."

"I can't see you ever settling down in Stars Hollow."

"Yeah, me either, but it was the only place I knew would have me at the time."

"This place really gets under your skin," she says. "I get why you had to come back, even after everything that ever happened to you here.."

"Some things never leave a person," he responds.

"Li-Young Lee?"

"Hmm?"

"Some things never leave a person: scent of the hair of one you love, the texture of persimmons in your palm, the ripe weight," she finishes the quote, looking right into his eyes, into his naked, shivering core.

And then she's leaning in, and he's unable to stop himself from pressing his lips to hers. She's all gin and berries, warm spices, a fall day, handmade quilts, a ripe apple, a wood burning fireplace. She kisses back with surprising strength and force, her hand sliding up his neck to find purchase in his hair while he wraps his arms around her, enveloping her. This is not teenage hormones and excitement, this is a combined forty years of experience and want and it's rich and deep and amber like an expensive single malt. He breathes her in and she presses herself closer.

"Rory…" it comes out fervent: a prayer, an incantation.

"No talking," she orders, breathless.

They're in a cab. They're on the sidewalk. They're in her apartment. There's no reason, no thoughts, no noise. I'm with you in Rockland where the faculties of the skull no longer admit the worms of the senses. They're in her bed and there's no him and no her, just fevered skin and sweat and teeth and tongues and whatever these pink things mean. O victory forget your underwear we're free.