Summary: AU. Cotton. Skin. Sweat. Momentary doesn't mean a damn thing and she's tired of ignoring it. Lit one shot: based on a challenge issued by Hider.

Challenge: "I will wait for you forever, if you would just ask me."

Disclaimer: I own nothing. Don't sue, or I'll eat your face.

A/N: She just had to give me a difficult challenge. I was given the option to make a fan art or write a fic, based on the challenge above. I chose to write a fic, because my artistic ability is minimal when it comes to following requirements. This took me a while to grasp, to word, and to finish. But I'm semi-proud of it. I hope you enjoy.

Oh, and it's set late second season.


It was a momentary flash; an insignificant segment of time in which she'd allowed him to seep into her thoughts. Cotton. Skin. Sweat.

Momentary doesn't mean a damn thing. She's thinking about him; them; sex. That's the only significant part.

Her cheeks start burning and she tucks her hair behind her ear, attempting to sink into the bar stool and disappear. She knows it's ridiculous but she doesn't care.

Giving up, her eyes float around the diner and rest on his back, watching the smooth movement of his arm as he wipes down tables. Another flash; a little longer. She blushes a little less this time and continues to watch him.

He feels her eyes on him but chooses to ignore it. Her blush is almost audible, and he lets his mind wander a little as he finishes taking an order and walks behind the counter.

They ignore each other for a few minutes, her eyes glued to her novel and his hands busy giving change to a customer. After a while she sees his hand place itself over the text in front of her and she bites her lip before looking up at him. Cerulean meets with warm chocolate and she gets another flash, this time in Technicolor.

Her mother would have her head.

He asks her about the book and they begin their usual debate, arguing over the underlying themes and the merits of each character in turn. His fingers brush hers when he pours her another cup of coffee and they're both forced to pretend they don't notice.

She does, he knows; she blushes and stares at the deep brown liquid.

Their subtle touches have become more frequent; always too short to acknowledge and yet always too long to be deemed inconsequential. It's always momentary, however, and therefore they choose to ignore it completely.


Cotton. Skin. Sweat.

She lies in bed that night and allows her mind to run rampant, flying through a forest of forbidden thought. She is Eve, she thinks with a smile, and she's starting to question: what his lips would feel like, his hands, his body…his tongue.

Her sheets rustle as she turns over and she shivers a little. Flashes: a bright light, the distinct scent of his cologne, his eyes, her laughter, a white room and a bed. Her mind pulls a freeze frame and the last picture becomes clearer on the black film strip of her eyelids. She bites her lip; the sheets rustle; and suddenly her fingers are gliding over the worn pages of a novel.

It's not the text she's grazing, though. It's the messy handwriting in the margins, the inner workings of his mind. Her eyelids flutter shut and a familiar stirring begins in her stomach, forcing her to flop onto the bed and attempt to focus on the slight squeak of the springs.

With a sigh, she rolls over and allows the flashes their chance to corrupt her for the night.


She ambles through the festival, her hand attached to that of her boyfriend's. She continues to search for him, knowing she won't find him amongst the chaos ("small town insanity," he calls it).

She catches a glimpse of dark brown and pauses, smiling when she sees him leaning nonchalantly against a tree on the outskirts of the town square. She promises Dean she'll see him later and wanders over to him, allowing him to escort her to a more secluded portion of the town.

It's when they're standing at the edge of the bridge that she does it.

She grabs his hand and intertwines their fingers, grinning when he turns toward her in confusion.

"Don't," she cuts him off when he opens his mouth to speak. Jess blinks for a second and then nods, assuming his indifferent expression again.

They stand there, holding hands and not saying anything, for what seems like an eternity.

The flashes grow more intense; white room and a bed; her laughter; hands locking together; a screeching sound somewhere in the distance; a scene from a movie she can't quite place.

It's when she kisses him that everything stops. The world is in slow motion; she can distinctly feel the way he disentangles their hands and wraps his arm around her waist, the other coming to rest like a feather on her cheek. In one fluid motion she pushes her hands up his chest, across his shoulders, and around his neck until her fingers are playing with the dark curls that lay there.

He is the first to pull away and Rory moans a little in protest. He rests their foreheads together and takes a deep breath.

"Wait for me," she whispers. He nods a little and kisses her again in understanding.

They both walk back to the festival and she rushes off to find Lane.

Moments later, she catches his eyes with her own and it's something like a promise of forever. All he'd ever wanted her to do was ask.