Maybe

Author: avaleighfitzgerald

Disclaimer: As much as I'd like to own them, I don't.

A/N: Well, it had to be done really. Yes, this is another post-episode fic for 'Last Week Fights, This Week Tights', but hopefully a new take on both the thoughts throughout the scene and what happens afterwards. I'd like to dedicate this fic to my wonderful beta Mariah, without whom this fic would suck so bad. Thanks hon!

Summary: The seriousness will pass and I’ll have to crawl back home with half my heart and a broken dream. Last Week Fights, This Week Tights fic, Rory POV.

--

“What's going on with you?” I hear the door open and turn to face it. I can feel my eyes widen and I pray that this is just my brain deciding to mutiny. He starts walking towards me and I’m pretty sure it’s not a hallucination - however much I want it to be. “What are you doing here?”

“I need to talk to you.” No explanations, no apologies, just demands. Like always.

“Jess…” I can hear the warning tone in Dean’s voice and I just know that this will not go well if they both stay. The testosterone is thick in the air, so tangible I’m practically choking on it. Jess turns to me, ignoring Dean.

“I need to talk to you.”

“What's going on?” Dean asks.

“What are you doing here?” I hear myself ask harshly.

“Rory, please.” Great, he really needs to talk.

“Rory?” Oh god, Dean. He‘s got Lindsay waiting for him and it‘s clear that Jess is not going to leave until he gets whatever he wants to talk about off his chest. This night has been the night from hell; I’m never drinking alcohol again. Ever. I turn and focus on Dean,

“Go -- go home.”

“No.” Not right now, Dean, this is not the time to stand your ground! What is it with men and thinking I'm incapable of taking care of myself.

“Yes, go. You should go.” I take a breath as he leaves, his anger evident in his gait. Jess always chooses the most inopportune moments and I don‘t bother to mask my irritation at this. “Why won't you leave me alone? You won't go away.”

“Rory.” His voice is soft and I just want to curl up inside it and take advantage of this moment. I blink and take stock of this situation, recognizing the indignation that’s welling up.

“What do you want?”

“I don't know. I just wanted to see you, talk to you. I just…”

“What?” How stupid of me to actually think he had a plan. This is Jess Mariano, drifter extraordinaire who deliberately ignores any form of organization. That’s what I hate about us; that I’m always expecting to be able to change him and I’m always disappointed.

“Come with me.”

“What?” Did he just…?

“Come with me.”

My mind goes black with shock, so my mouth runs on auto-pilot. “Where?” I can’t believe I even asked that question. I’m not doing this. I’m not running away from everything I’ve worked for, especially not with Jess.

“I don't know...away!”

“Are you crazy?” I’m talking without thinking; I just know that I can’t do this, especially when he’s so serious about it. I know Jess; he’s unpredictable and changes his mind quicker than a kid in a candy store. The seriousness will pass and I’ll have to crawl back home with half my heart and a broken dream.

“Probably. Do it. Come with me. Don't think about it.”

“I can't do that.” I can’t not think about it, even if I’m refusing. I still have to think about it! It’s not quite the pro/con list but there’s still thought that has to go into this. I can‘t look at him, because I know he‘s not kidding this time. I open my door as a way to avoid his imploring eyes but I can still feel them on me as I walk into the room.

“You don't think you can do it, but you can. You can do whatever you want.” I’m hearing him argue his case and I feel something akin to a glow of pride, which I dash as soon as I recognize it because this situation is not something to be proud of.

“It's not what I want.” That’s it; just keep saying that, because it’s definitely not what I want.

“It is. I know you.” Five words. That’s all he needs. Five words to justify what he’s saying, and for a second I give in. Then the Lorelai in me digs her heels in and uses my mouth.

“You don't know me!” I can hear the indignation there again, because it’s true, he doesn’t know me, at least not anymore. Perhaps he never did. He was convinced he wasn’t good enough, that I wouldn’t understand, that I didn’t feel as much as he did; if he knew me, he would have known that none of that was true.

I am such a liar! He does know me, even after everything he still knows me better than anyone else. He knew me that well within his first week of being in Stars Hollow. A lump in my throat starts to form and I can feel the prick in my nose that spreads behind my eyes. So I turn, but he still follows. He touches my arm and the slow, warm burn unfurls over my skin. This isn’t fair.

“Look, we'll go to New York. We'll work, we'll live together, and we’ll be together. It's what I want. It's what you want, too.”

I can feel the hope starting up in my chest, pushing its way past rationality and anger, so the Lorelai stamps her feet and refuses like a petulant kid. In fact I wouldn’t be surprised if I have stamped my feet too. I’ve never handled pressure well.

“No!”

His voice softens again, trying to express just how much he wants this. Right now he’s opening himself up, layer by layer and I feel like I’m watching something momentous; in the same way a gardener must feel watching the birth of a new rose.

“I want to be with you, but not here. Not this place, not Stars Hollow. We have to start new.”

“There's nothing to start!”

“You're packed. Your stuff is all in boxes. It's perfect. You're ready. And I'm ready. I'm ready for this. You can count on me now. I know you couldn't count on me before, but you can now. You can.” He’s right. It would be so easy for me to just go, live la vie bohème with the street-smart boy with old eyes. I can’t though. I have Mom and Yale and Christiane Amapour…I look back up at him and the urge to kiss him hits me like a truck, forcing my answer out.

“No!”

“Look, you know we're supposed to be together. I knew it the first time I saw you two years ago, and you know it, too. I know you do.”

“No, no, no, no, no!” I can feel my resolve breaking down all over again hearing him assuring that he loved me from the start. It’s moments like this that made this entire mess we got ourselves into begin in the first place. So I just keep repeating "no" like it’s a lifeline, the safe word to drag me out of this situation. He knows though, like he always has.

“Don't say "no" just to make me stop talking or make me go away. Only say "no" if you really don't want to be with me.”

My mouth can’t decide what to say, there are two words struggling to get out. I look back at him and at this room, at Yale and know that I’m not the same, just as he isn’t the same. So this is it, end it now.

“No!”

As soon as I’ve said it his face falls and I know that I’ve broken him. He doesn’t say a word, just backs away and walks out of the room, not once looking back. Naturally this would be the time he decides not to fight for what he wants. I sit down on the nearest box to stop myself from collapsing into tiny little Rory bits. This is night has been one fucking disaster after another. Drawing air back into my lungs, I finally manage to spit out the word that’s grown in my throat,

“Maybe”.

--

I walk back to my car, keeping my breath purposely in time with my footfall, because I know that if I don’t, I’ll forget to breathe. I feel exactly like I did on that bus a year ago and I hate that he can make me feel this way. I open the door and settle myself behind the wheel, taking deep breaths, attempting to dispel the weight that’s taken residence on my chest. I’ve managed to quell the shaking - which of course did not help with the carrying of the boxes - but my nerves are still coiled as tight as a spring. Frustrated I push my head back on the seat, trying to shake it off. This was supposed to be a fun college night out, socializing and celebrating one year over with. Instead I get two ex-boyfriends and a pain in my chest that feels like a stitch.

I slide the key into ignition and bring the car to life. Taking one more steadying breath I start to drive out. As I pass out the iron gates, I wonder if he’s far ahead of me. I can’t get him out of my mind, his face, his voice, his smell…It all lingers and I’m somewhere between being angry and heartbroken and falling in love with him all over again. I can’t quite believe the mess tonight has been. There is no way I’d ever thought he’d come to my dorm room asking me to go with him. “Wherever, whatever” God that sounded so appealing. Even now. So, I do what I do best when it comes to the personal. I ran away, gave up on him (on us), even though for once he believed there was something to salvage. He was just so earnest and willing, and open. He meant every word of what he said and that’s what I can’t get over - the sheer honesty. The irony that for once I was the liar.

No two letters have ever tasted so bitter on my tongue, bar when I added that “I think” when he called on Graduation Day. I never give up on anything and yet I manage to throw away the very thing I’ve been waiting for? I have wondered so much in the past year how our second chance would start. I was so sure I’d take it, instead I broke his heart. And mine I guess. I’ve tried so hard to convince myself that I was over it, but I knew I wasn’t. Mom knew I wasn’t. Everyone knew I wasn’t. Yet nobody said anything. In Stars Hollow, the town with the gossip mill to rival entire nations, no-one ever breathed a word about him once he’d gone. I wish they had. Maybe it would have pushed me to get over this sooner. Maybe, if they had I wouldn’t be having this rambling confessional right now. I mean, I feel like a heroine from a trashy romance novel, all gushing and what-iffing. God, this stupid inner monologue is enough to make me go to church, to finish this melodramatic breakdown properly. If I’m going to be the feeble heroine, I might as well go all out. I can hear him laugh at that, as if it’s 2003 and I got him to switch places, so I’m driving and he’s eating his ice-cream cone. I’ve always thought that if I’d driven that night, we’d never have started. Perhaps that would’ve been a good idea. Then I wouldn’t have trouble breathing right just thinking about it.

Okay Rory breathe. Focus on driving. I’ve only got a little while on the road to collect myself and I’m almost back together again when I catch sight of his car. My mind starts racing, trying to find a way to prevent him from seeing me. I can’t let him see me, I don’t have the right. Not after everything I’ve done tonight with the drinking and the Dean and oh God, Dean. I’m an idiot. A complete and total imbecile, why did I call Dean? Of all the people I know, I call Dean? My married ex-boyfriend with marital troubles. That was stupid Rory, so stupid. I focus on finding a way to pull over inconspicuously and of course, this is when reality knocks in the form of a familiar battered car. Jess’ car. Looking at his license plate not six yards ahead of me, millions of questions run through me. Loudest is ‘What the hell is wrong with me?’ but ‘Why not?’ hurts so much more. My hands shake as I pull over, not caring any more about being inconspicuous. I start to hyperventilate as I see his brake lights switch on, but thankfully he’s pulling in to the gas station. This knowledge is doing nothing to help this lack of oxygen thing. Air, I need fresh air.

I close my eyes, trying to slow down the panic that’s rising in my chest and blindly open the door. My eyes burn as I swing my feet out onto the asphalt and I slowly step out on weak legs. Legs so weak that land me all tangled and tearful on the grassy verge. I can feel the shame flushing my cheeks as I take in my ridiculous, irrational situation: Breaking down on the hard shoulder because I refused to follow an ex-boyfriend who I’m still in love with (possibly) to God knows where. I inadvertently freeze at the word Love used in connection with Jess. I promised myself back at graduation that regardless of everything; what I had felt was not in any way, shape or form, Love.

“Love shouldn’t hurt this much!”

That’s my entire choked out reason for why my lungs burn tightly and my stomach is no longer existent. This hurts too much for it to be love, besides, why would I be in love with Jess? I open my eyes again as I feel answers to my own question fill my mouth. Swallowing and shuddering, I force my own thoughts away from this line and toward remembering what I can of Health class. As the spinning slows down, I recall that alcohol is a depressant, an inhibition relaxant. That would explain the stupid internal and external mutinies my mind and mouth are enacting. Taking comfort that the gnawing in my gut is definitely the alcohol I manage to breathe a little slower. ‘I’m not falling in love; I’m just falling to pieces’ I think over and over again. Slowly all the sounds start to recede, hidden by my gasping between sobs. I’m so wrapped up in trying to get the shaking and the tears to stop that I don’t even hear him approach until he talks,

“But it does”.

That’s enough to make the spinning start again, with the realization that I’m clearly not as inconspicuous as I had hoped. I squeeze my eyes shut, like I used to as a kid when I got told something I didn’t want to hear. I would laugh at the infantile gesture but it’s what holding me together. That and the possibility that this is a cruel figment of my intoxicated imagination. I’m still hoping I’m hallucinating when he pushes the damp hair from my eyes and starts rubbing comforting circles on my wrist. I’m know I’m not when the circles start burning familiarly and I can smell leather, stale smoke and Jess. “Count to ten before you exhale”

I nod and try it.

I only get to three.

--

I don’t know how long he’s been sitting here, silently stroking my hair and skimming my skin, much in the way I imagine he would had I been heaving over a porcelain toilet bowl. It’s oddly comforting and I know it shouldn’t be, but I don’t have the strength or the will to shrug him off. My throat is dry and constricted but I’m breathing easier. Taking another deep breath I finally look up at him. His hair reminds me of the picnic on the bridge - longer, fewer products, hurried. I liked it like that. I remember spending about fifteen minutes debating whether or not to push a strand from his eyes, much as he did earlier. Slowly I feel his fingers dance away from me and he runs them through my hair for what’s about to be the last time.

“I’m sorry. For all of it. You deserve better.” he breathes out, and that’s when I know he’s leaving. I can’t let him run out on a declaration again; I don’t want to spend my summer locking this away in my mental file cabinet. So I say it:

“I love you.”

His finger lifts my chin and I’m staring once again at his eyes. I feel seventeen all over again, leaning over the counter catching his eyes and his fingertips for a brief moment as he passes me a coffee mug filled to the brim. My eyelids slide shut as they always do when I feel his mouth on mine. My hands move as if they’ve a life of their own and tangle themselves in the hair below his left ear. For one single suspended moment I’m back at the gas station, feeling his smile spread over my lips for the first official time. We break apart and he leans his forehead against mine; the sense of déja vu overwhelming.

“You loved me. Maybe.”

So here I am again, crumpled with a single word as I watch him drive away.