Building Bridges

Disclaimer: I do not own Gilmore Girls. The show and its characters belong to the WB network and the creative genius of Amy Sherman Palladino. If I *did* own it...well...let's just say that certain things would have ended differently...or not at all! I also don't own The Clash or anyone or anything else mentioned in this fic.

A/N: This fic is dedicated to Jamie, my best friend and long-suffering proof reader. Because we're a hell of a lot more like Rory and Jess than you think and because our song was a partial inspiration for this story. Thank you for always being there for me. Thank you for being you.

..........................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................

Silence is golden

Silence is golden? Ha! That's what they tell you but it's not true. Silence is what it is-silent. It has no colour, no taste, no smell and above all, no sound. It's a big, fat elephant of pressure in a room…but the worst silences are the ones that last over long distances.

Those silences start with a phonecall. You'd think that would lift the tension but there's no sound at the other end. Only the rush of cars, the skid of skateboards, the scuffling of awkward shoes. Those silences end with the click of a door, the pounding of feet on concrete stairs. The dial tone, filling your head with a continuous bleep, like a heart monitor whose patient has crashed.

That's the thing they don't tell you about silence-it's actually the loudest thing on earth. But it's not about the sounds you hear, it's all about the ones you should hear but aren't coming out. The words from your own mouth, spilling out in one long, harsh knife stab, his breath on the other end of the phone line. Ragged. Sighing. But no words. Never any words. No…emotion.

I'm a master at monosyllable translation. Seriously, I should write the book. 'Cause you see, I dated it-the master of play it cool, fuck the consequences.

Books. The only form of communication he actually managed to grasp. It was always our little secret. He would read to me, long rambling passages about life and love. I always used to dream that it was his own unique way of showing me that he cared. He wrote one for me, you know. The Subsect. It woke me up out of a stupor, told me how much I'd screwed up my life. Screwed up his too.

It is what it is. You. Me.

It's the little throwaway observations that rip you apart the most. Ever since that Dodger came into my life, my soul has been slowly tearing itself apart. Little frayed pieces that could only be stitched together by a smirk. A crooked, knowing smile. It started with Hemingway and a tranquil bridge. I was such an open book. Ernest only has lovely things to say about you. It ended, or so I thought, in a poky publishers' office with a kiss and a confession. And I couldn't even cheat on him the way he cheated on me!

In the end, it was me who destroyed it. Petty revenge tactics were never really my thing. Certainly not when it involved him. I couldn't be that damn callous because he's stood there, looking at me with those deep, sad brown pools and all I could see was that fucking petrol pump and a limp cigarette. Did I…do something? He always thought it was his fault. He was always waiting, thinking he was on the brink of screwing up because he'd done that with everyone else so why not me, right?

He was so…complacent, so damn understanding. As if was ok that I'd just kissed him and was running out on him to be with some bastard who'd cheated on me because I loved him. Ha.

So really, it was all me. My fault. My screw-ups. So now, instead of sitting on bridges, debating Hemingway, I need to start building them. And that starts with breaking the silence. 180 miles of elephant pressure. A hell of a lot further than 22.8 and I can't fix it by using Yahoo.

That's what brought me to where I am now. Sat on my little bed, holding my cell phone, fingers poised to dial. Another dial tone, but this time I'll actually go through with it. So that's it. Punching the numbers in now. Hitting the taunting green call button…

A click and he picks up…oh god, what do I say?…

Jess?