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This one will wreck him. Oh, yeah. This one promises calamity.
_
Jess hears it in the cracking first. He feels it in the thawing of his bones the moment he reaches out to catch the edge of a snowflake with his thumb and swipes it off her cheek, his thoughts splitting into chaos because ‘over…long over’ is what they’re supposed to be. And they were. They are.
But then she steps close enough to shoulder-bump him, her head tilted, her eyes shining up at him with a mixture of alcohol, gaiety, and anticipation as they head back to the house so they can drink coffee and gorge on some of Sookie’s gourmet sugar cookies, and soon, all of those unspoken words he swore he’d deleted years ago when they were still a couple of twenty-something kids up to their waists in missed chances, spill out into the margins of his mind in ink too permanent to miss. The words fall out all tangled together like carefully embedded prose to expose dusty questions that had apparently never settled like he’d intended.
(Or more like he’d damn well hoped.)
_
He smells it in the crispness of the air second.
Clumsy as ever, Rory folds her fingers into the crook of his elbow in a clinging effort to keep herself steady after her foot slides backward on a slippery patch of sidewalk near Miss Patty’s dance studio. Her hands curl into the lapels of his jacket. They fly around his neck within seconds next, desperate for somewhere soft and sturdy to land, and his lungs betray him with one measly hitch of breath. Backstabbing bastard lungs, they are, too. Freezing at her touch like it’s the first time. Oh, how he damns them for sending fresh trembles along his shoulders, then down the columns of his spine.
“This feels like a scene straight out of While You Were Sleeping,” she laughs.
Her tone’s full of self-mockery and ridicule, but she doesn’t seem bothered by her impromptu ice skating or her near-toppling into his arms at all, which Jess finds curious.
“But as long as you don’t rip your pants up the ass,” she continues, “we should be okay the rest of the way. At least—well, would you say you’re more Blades of Glory or Wayne Gretzky?”
“Charlie Conway, probably.” When she stares at him blankly, he flicks her side with his index finger and says, “From the Mighty Ducks?”
“Oooh, lucky me! I mean, had you said Gordon Bombay, I’m afraid I’d have to contend with your weak and wobbling hockey knees,” Rory says in a way that denotes both her relief and her amusement.
“In that case, we’d both be screwed.”
“Right, so no ripped jeans or ice-kissed butts for you. Got it, mister.” Just to be safe, however, she links her arm through his anyway. She leans against him for warmth or for support (or for who the hell knows what else), as they recommence their stroll through Stars Hollow.
They somehow manage to take the long and slow route home. She doesn’t seem to mind, though, so why should he? And even though Jess knows he shouldn’t, he breathes in the lavender soap of her skin and allows himself to remember how well she’s always fit against his side. How right she’s always felt. Like the home he’d never had with Liz…or with any other woman he’s dated since.
He thinks of sleigh rides, of a stolen teenage kiss or two behind Gypsy’s Auto Repair. He thinks of quiet nights in, of cuddling and movie bingeing, of Indian chicken curry which stunk up the whole of his uncle’s apartment, and of talking Faulkner, Hemingway, and Bukowski with little to no regard for time. He remembers how certain of her, and of them, he’d once been.
I know you. I know you better than anyone.
The reflection hurts. It chafes him worse than frostbite to know he’ll probably always be the one who understands her best.
But what does it matter? What good does it do to reflect on those chapped patches of his past? How does it help to contemplate his screwed-up life? Why wonder and wish? Why—why in hell should he waste any more time on unfulfilling idioms like ‘if?’
(Except he does.)
_
Jess sees it in the pine trees third, their boughs bent and threatening to break because they carry too much weight. They hold too many frozen dreams that’ll hit the ground soon but won’t melt. They’ll try, sure, but they’ll never seem to fade away despite the passing of countless springs. They can’t—it’d be too dry without their existence afterwards, too unburdening.
Because you didn’t say goodbye.
I deserve better than this.
You, me…you know we’re supposed to be together.
I knew, I knew it the first time I saw you.
How many years has it been, huh? Ten? Fifteen? Fifteen years he’s spent trying to thaw these thoughts from inside of him, acting like she hasn’t creeped through his mind when his world grew too hollow or too full, and that's either too many years to count on fingers or too much time for him to try and pretend otherwise. It’s asinine to deceive himself. A waste of good lies.
I knew, I knew, I knew…
The ringing in his mind won’t stop.
It plays in the background like static because he still discerns that dangerous load of thoughts in his periphery—all of those old moments of theirs' which promised continuity and evolution and ‘I love you’s’ which didn’t need saying. There's that hand of hers which never felt too heavy in his and would never be anything but a pleasure to hold, to thread his fingers through for no reason, to raise to his mouth so he could learn the paths of her palms, wrists, knuckles. Oh, what he still wouldn't do to taste her sweet, soft skin with his lips over and over again.
Dammit, he must stop this. He cannot let the perilousness of hope to overwhelm him. He doesn’t want to blink. He doesn’t want to close his eyes. Don’t think, don’t think. He doesn’t want to find himself blinded or paralyzed by dreams he’s no longer supposed to be dreaming.
But dreams can’t be stopped. They unravel and unwind, they keep on coming regardless of the iron walls he raises and reinforces inside his own head to ward against the intrusion.
It’s draining, this looped thinking.
He can’t win. He can’t break free. So why, he wonders, why the hell does he try? It’s exhausting and pointless and awful and unbearable. His head is the cruelest place to be when he's near her.
Yeah, it’s crueler than anything.
_
It’s a few hours past midnight now, and despite having closed out the only bar in town with scotch, candlelight, and conversation a good half hour ago, they still loiter beneath the snowcapped Christmas lights in front of Luke’s with nothing but snow and old memories for company. Rory’s resplendent in her double-breasted peacoat, her mouth clicking off new words and subjects as fast as fingers on a keyboard. There’s a bounce in her knees at the moment which he swears she reserves only for donut sightings, new book releases, Lorelai, and coffee, so he’s at a loss when she drags him under the awning below where it says Williams Hardware and presses her face into the window like she’s investigating something. Or like she’s looking for someone’s dropped holiday crumbs.
The diner’s black inside. The sign's flipped to show it’s closed, and it probably has been for some hours now. Undeterred, however, Rory turns around to flash him a knowing grin—a hint of intrigue dimpling the edges around her cracked lips. “Of all the java joints, in all the towns, it hangs from mine! Can you believe it?” she says with an exhilarated ‘eeee.’
“Believe what?”
“Look up.”
Jess inclines his head. He feasts his eyes on the object of interest which dangles above him like the universe’s next big test. (Or trick, depending on how this conversation ends.)
“Huh. That’s new."
“It’s not only new, my friend, but legendary,” Rory says as her tongue slides cheekily across her lower teeth. “And I mean that in the sense that this is so unbelievable, I’m convinced the Doctor plopped down in his T.A.R.D.I.S. and threw us into some kind of warped alternative reality where Luke spends his free holiday hours stringing popcorn and disappearing down chimneys.”
Jess acts like he’s not hanging on by her scarf strings.
“So, uh…” He clears his throat, gulping down that familiar flutter he’s been trying to subdue all night. “What now?”
“I’d say we have a conundrum, Watson.”
“We sure do, Sherlock.”
The ghost of their past love, which is not dead yet, follows close behind this remark to rustle the nerves of his heart like a skeleton because she’s all doe-eyed and lively, flirty without trying, and not to mention cute as hell. It makes Jess clench his fists as he struggles to get a fucking grip. Hating himself for feeling things he thought he’d taught himself how to forget.
How many times can this happen? How many goddamn ways to Sunday can he be kicked in the gut? It won’t do anymore, alright? Not when he’s taken the trouble to grow this thick, mature, leather skin.
Except he knows it’s too late. He already knows…
He’s back where he started again.
He’s back at the threshold of seventeen where he first spotted that ellipsis carved into the corners of her mouth on the night they first met, standing in her bedroom doorway like a thief, coveting her literature because he knew with a glance that this girl was sentences and paragraphs. He knew she was pages and chapters and books which were yet to be understood in some overarching theme he wouldn’t be able to name. He knew she was a still-developing story he’d need to read through to the conclusion.
I knew. I knew it the first time I saw you.
That same ellipsis is back in Rory's features tonight, in this moment. Or maybe it’s always been there? Maybe it’s never disappeared, never gone away?
She wears it like a bookmark: pressed between every curve and contour, written between every beautiful line of her face. It’s the same one asking him to turn over to the next page right now…and follow again.
_
He senses it in the forgotten silence fourth.
_
“Luke would be furious if he knew,” Rory says with a flick of her forefinger.
“Maybe he already does? Lorelai has wife sway these days. I’m sure she works that to her advantage,” Jess replies with a snicker.
The December air has reddened her nose and there’s snow stuck to her pant leg, but she seems impervious to the cold of her beloved Stars Hollow.
“Mom would revel in how you’ve bestowed her with all the credit for this, but no.” She shakes her head, obviously amused. “No, Luke’s compliance with town tradition would make Taylor too gleeful.”
Pensive, Jess nods. He rolls up the sleeves of his brown coat. “Let’s take it down then.”
“What!?” Her eyes widen, horrified.“No! Wait, wait!”
Part diverted, part bemused, he pauses to quirk an eyebrow at her, “What for? Petal will eat it. There’s not a garbage dropping in all of Connecticut that pig hasn’t devoured like it’s creme brulle,” he offers reassuringly.
“Yeah, but…that’s not what I—”
“He’s become the Tiny oinking Tim of this crazy town, anyway. Except with tender hooves instead of crutched feet.”
“And Kirk.”
“Yeah, and Kirk,” Jess concedes wryly.
“Hold on,” Rory interjects in a bolder tone. “Let’s stop to think about this for a second. If we do this,” she exhales, her blue-knit mittens raised in supplication and her bottom lip sucked between her teeth, “if we do it, then we forfeit the chance to witness a ranting, raving Luke throwing candy canes all over the floor of the Soda Shoppe tomorrow.
“Imagine the entertainment potential with me here, Kimmel.” She sweeps her arms out for dramatic effect, zooming in at him with her hands like a camera. “It’d be like Jingle All the Way meets Star Wars.”
“With Taylor as what? A crowd-flung Booster? Chewbacca?”
Rory nods enthusiastically, “There’d be heavy Wookie wailing and all.”
Jess’ lips twitch as he considers this. Then he shrugs. “Nothing we haven’t seen a million times before.”
“No! But…but…this year he’s selling candy cane light sabers that glow as red as Kylo’s tantrums!” she says in ta-da; as if, somehow, this information will confuse him enough to halt his next maneuver.
“Where’s Han Solo when you need him to smuggle you some good marketing?” Jess cringes. “Geez.”
“Still stabbed through the chest somewhere, unfortunately. Besides,” Rory adds with a wave of her hand, “I doubt the Force is strong enough to fix Taylor’s strange slogans.”
“You said it, Skywalker, not me.”
He reaches up then, still shaking his head, to curl his hand around the decoration’s sparkly red bow. Finding the hook, he threatens to yank it to the ground with a good tug or two despite the punches Rory pounds into his arm in playful protest. Smirking, he lifts it further out of her reach. She narrows her eyes in warning.
“Don’t even think about it, Mariano!” she exclaims as she lunges over his shoulder amid a peal of laughter. Attempting to grab it from him, she jumps up-and-down like a pogo stick. “Oh my God, don’t you dare deprive me of the possibility of Luke going all Vader in the middle of Taylor’s SantaLand tomorrow!”
“Cool your over-caffeinated bouncin’ there, Easter bunny,” Jess laughs. He twines the slack of her scarf around her head to slow her down. “What if I said I plan to leave a festive chalkperson in its stead? Would that be an acceptable substitute, d’you think?”
Lowering his hand, he allows the ball to swing, unencumbered, above them like an ornament. Rory pulls back to unloosen her scarf, her face flushed and her mood jovial. “Only if you draw Santa Claus,” she says.
He wrinkles his nose, “Nah, I was thinking more like Dickens’ Christmas ghosts. This town needs a good haunting.”
“Whatever you say, Scrooge.”
“Excuse me, but the name’s Dodger to you.”
“As if I could forget,” she says with a wistful chuckle, averting her gaze.
Moments like these always feel so easy and natural between them. Inevitable, even. Like laughter or breathing.
“Putting the whole Dennis the Menace scheme aside for a second,” Rory looks down and crunches salt and snow beneath her boots, “I was thinking…”
“Yeah?”
“Maybe we could—oh, I don’t know…”
When she stops mid-thought to click the heels of her boots together and shift her body to the side, fumbling with her mittens, he prods. “What?”
“We could…we could let it stay there, couldn’t we? It’s not bothering anyone up there, and Luke’s inflammatory reaction whenever he sees it tomorrow will be nothing short of Oscar-worthy and, well,” Rory adds in a languid but rambling tone which is a little reminiscent of her timorous teenage self, “it wouldn’t be illegal if two people found themselves under it or anything.”
“You mean, like…” Jess swallows. His voice comes out husky, like it’s comprised of strangled consonants and vowels, and it makes the words quiver when they breach his lips to meet the air. He hates the sound.
“Kind of, uh...” He falters a second time, scratches his chin. “Kind of like we are now?”
Shrugging yeah in a nonchalant way, but still fidgeting more than normal by bouncing on her toes, Rory angles toward him with warm but wary eyes that size him up as if they’re still trying to decide something, “I mean, don’t you think some traditions can be nice?” she asks timidly.
“No.”
“No?”
“I don’t know.” He shoves his hands into his pockets. He rocks side-to-side as if he’s trying to circulate warmth to his limbs, but really, he’s avoiding her eyes. “Maybe,” he amends.
“So, certain ones can be okay then?” Rory asks with a tilt of her head.
“Depends, I guess.”
There’s a slight edge to her expression when she looks at him here: something that’s equal parts adorable, nervous, tenacious, and bashful. It’s a look that reaches out with a hand that shivers whenever she scoots forward to huddle between his feet, her fingers trembling against his shirt, above his heart. She shivers hard and it makes him wonder how much is from the cold and how much is from their new proximity.
“Would you be scandalized if I told you I liked this tradition?” she asks.
“No,” Jess breathes. “Not really.”
“After all,” Rory whispers, her blue eyes warm and eager as she wraps her arms around his neck and presses her forehead against his, leaning in with calamity curved into her smile, “what’s the harm in you and me beneath some mistletoe at least once in our lives?”
“I’ll quote the Beach Boys here and say—” Cupping her face in his hand, drawing her against him, he surrenders to that awaiting gift on her mouth, “God only knows.”
_
Jess tastes it on her parting and pliant lips last. Her tongue slides in and tells him everything he needs to know because this part—the kissing, that zipping and tingling chemistry which adrenalizes every nerve in his body the moment their mouths collide—is the one thing that’s worked flawlessly between them since the start. And it still does.
The connection between them is still there, still flourishing.
It’s more alive in this moment than it was fifteen years ago, and it’s sharpening into something denser and deeper. It’s precarious at best, irrational to the core. It’s becoming a fact as inevitable and as irrevocable and as fucking evident as black letters on a pure white page, and Jess knows there’s not a single damn thing he can do to prevent his mind from writing it down in literal easy-to-read lines. No margins this time. He knows he can’t stop the rush of past, present, and future from merging inside his pounding chest, from rustling those old feelings he’s tried (and failed) to claw from his heart like weeds.
This is it. There’s no subduing or denying. As F. Scott Fitzgerald once said, 'this is the beginning and ending of everything.’
Calamity hangs above his head with the mistletoe, then falls like the December flakes around them as Rory kisses him long and hot and slow, wrecking him with the knowledge that he could—yeah, he could fall in love with her again all too easily.