#an absolute pukefest | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

gingerteaonthetardis · 2 years ago

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Literati and “not wearing that”

nonny, i apologize for taking so long to finish this. i had an idea and i wanted to make sure i got it right, you know? that said, this received no editing, i finished it about ten minutes ago, and you'll just have to forgive my grammatical mistakes.

an additional note: this story contains brief references to events immediately post-childbirth. nothing graphic or traumatic happens or is said to have happened; it's merely an acknowledgement that birth is messy and emotional. this story also contains an unplanned pregnancy. proceed accordingly!

read on ao3.

"I'm not wearing that."

Crossing his arms over his chest, Jess Mariano does his level best to look immovable, firm, and completely immune to the blue-eyed hangdog look the Rories—one standing tall and another in miniature—are giving him right now.

"But—" Bug pipes up right as her mother reaches down and touches her shoulder, which is liberally sprinkled with rainbow sparkles. He has no doubt that the bathroom's gotten a similar treatment, if the state of Rory's robe is anything to go by. She looks like the inevitable outcome of an explosion in a glitter factory.

"Hey, kiddo, can you give us a sec?" she says, looking down at her daughter—and though her tone is gentle it also brooks no argument. In the moment, she reminds him of Lorelai, though he'd never, never tell her. "I think Charlie Brown should be starting soon, if you want to go check the TV."

He instantly feels guilt over how Bug's narrow shoulders wilt at the dismissal, her chin dipping low. As she turns, the picture she makes is almost too tragic: her (slightly too large for her five-year-old stature) butterfly wings drag on the floor behind her, sparkles scattering miserably in her wake, where they will absolutely be ground into the rug by the soles of various shoes. Each shuffle-step feels calculated to hurt him.

"We'll be out soon," Rory calls after her. "Don't start your letter to the Great Pumpkin without us!" Her voice is still light, but he can see the narrowing of her eyes before she's even fully facing him again, moving to nearly-close the door. "You're in trouble, mister."

"Fine, but I am not," he bites out, "wearing that."

The 'that' in question lies spread out over the bedspread like a secondary comforter: a multi-colored pukefest of optical fuckery that would be at home in the music video for 'Yellow Submarine,' but is painfully out of place in this particular bedroom. Even his own hurricane-force proclivity for messmaking can't compete with the sheer unambiguous monstrosity of this Halloween costume.

"Jess," Rory whines, stomping her foot—which shouldn't be adorable, considering she's thirty-seven years old and a mother. But somehow, it is. "You are being so childish right now! Like, I legitimately cannot believe how immature you're being."

"Says the woman who just stomped her foot at me!"

Rory's frown intensifies, and he can tell that she's resisting the urge to stomp again, which brings a smirk to rest on his lips. Indignation rarely works on Rory.

His smugness doesn't last long, though. "Is this a masculinity thing?" she asks. It's that tone—so flippant, so genuinely uncomprehending, like he's out of his mind not to want to wear the damn thing—that always gets his hackles up, and he's about to defend himself when she picks up again, on a roll. "Is your, what, male pride going to be threatened by wearing a silly costume to a kids' Halloween party? Do you need to watch that bootleg of Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat again?"

He pinches the bridge of his nose. "Rory…"

"Do I need to get you on Dr. Phil or something?"

"That guy's a hack," he says with a roll of his eyes.

"Of course he's a hack," she bursts out. She seems to have diverted her energy into making the bed now. Which is a bit difficult without displacing the hellish mountain of fabric, but she's managing. Mostly via flinging the pillows back up to the head of the bed. "I meant so we can put you on national television and he can publicly shame you for refusing to wear a dumb costume for three—two hours, tops," she amends, noting the increasing intensity of his glower, "to make your kid happy."

Sometimes, he wonders if she says that kind of shit—your kid, your kid—intentionally, just to fuck with him. Just to melt him in all the ways that count, so he'll be more pliable. If it weren't for the fact that Rory doesn't have a manipulative bone in her body, he'd be certain she does it on purpose.

She and Bug are two of a kind, winding him around their slender fingers in conscious and unconscious moments, tighter every day. His shoulders sag as she punches a pillow.

He still has to put up a token resistance, of course. "She's five," he reminds her. "She's aware that the world doesn't bend to her every whim at this point, I'm pretty sure."

"Seriously, Jess? You're gonna go out there and tell her 'life's not fair'—on Halloween?"

Groaning, he sinks down onto the bed, which at least puts a stop to her restless tidying. "No, I just…"

Rory's like a shark or something, apparently, and she orbits closer like she can smell the blood in water. The impending victory. Sinking down beside him, the warmth of her thigh presses against his. His hands itch to touch her—like he hasn't done it in months or years, instead of just twenty minutes.

Her hand finds his. Like she's reading his mind.

She's good like that. Damn her.

His whole body loosens, finally giving up any semblance of a fight, and he knows she can feel that, too.

A breath sighs out of her. "Remember what you said right after Bug was born?" she prompts, sliding her hand under his and threading their fingers together one by one. It's a slow and fluid motion, but intentional, distracting him as she adds, "You were sitting next to me in one of those really uncomfortable chairs—"

"Really uncomfortable," he agrees, the memory coming back. "My back wasn't right for days."

"Okay, Grandpa." She rolls her eyes. "But I was super embarrassed because I was still really sweaty for some reason? And also kind of—like, leaking, for basically the entire duration of the conversation—"

"It's not called 'sweating' when you've just delivered a baby, Ror. I believe it's called a 'glow.'"

Her other hand reaches over, patting their entwined fingers. "Diplomatic of you not to mention the leaking. Anyway," she says, clearing her throat, "I noticed you'd brought your bag to the hospital, and I thought you were leaving again. I was so sure, actually, that you'd come to tell me goodbye…"

Her lip wobbles a bit before she sucks it into her mouth, biting down. Her pointer finger makes a map of the back of his hand—tracing hills and valleys, tendons and veins. But even with her head down, he picks up on the faint sheen in her eyes.

Jess squeezes her fingers.

"I was really kind of bitchy to you," she admits.

He shakes his head too fast. "I wouldn't say that."

Except he would; she'd practically run him out of the hospital room that day, despite not being able to properly stand on her own two legs. "I don't need you hanging around, looking after me, waiting for me to get my shit together, Jess," she'd spat, almost venomous with pain—all kinds of pain—and also with exhaustion. "Because it's not gonna happen. You're not Luke."

Those three words had fucked him up for a long time, though he'll never admit it. And they'd tempted him to bolt.

Again.

It was like she'd looked straight into the heart of him with her weird, divine feminine post-birth senses and seen the fears still lurking there: that he'd never be good enough, or strong enough, to be what the people in his life needed.

Now, she looks at him with lucent blue eyes, feathered a little more at the edges by time and experience. They're softer than they used to be, and more determined in their glinting.

She lets out a breath through her teeth. "I was awful. But instead of leaving, you opened your bag and pulled out this beat-up book—"

"Operating Instructions," he remembers with a smile. "Anne Lamott."

"—and you said it didn't matter if I ever got my shit together, because it wasn't about having my shit together. It was about knowing that I would never be alone."

"If memory serves, I also warned against getting super into religion postpartum."

Rory's laugh is watery, and her eyes squeeze shut as tears threaten to overflow them. "Shit, that's so mean. It brings her real comfort, you know?"

"Babe, where are you going with this?" His hands break free long enough to find their way to her back, where he fans slow circles into the worn cotton of her robe. It catches at the pads of his fingers, making soft-hot friction.

"Well," she winces, "I was gonna wrap it up by saying you promised me you'd always be there for Bug and me, and that means you have to put on the damn costume."

Jess lets out a low whistle. "Yeah, that would've been a pretty watertight argument. Lucky you didn't make it, or I'd have no choice but to cave under the emotional weight." He's relieved to see a brighter grin tug up the corner of her lips.

"Guess I couldn't go through with it." Her thumbs come away shiny when she wipes under her eyes—shiny and flecked with black from her makeup. "Because I'm a sucker, apparently, who can't stand to cheapen the memory."

And—I was right, Jess thinks. Not a manipulative bone in her body.

Though maybe a little in the connective tissue. A Gilmore legacy, a heritage that makes damn sure his life is never boring.

The knowledge is so sweet and heart-aching that his arm tightens, pressing her in closer until her head is at his shoulder, where he can turn his face and press a grateful kiss to her crown. Her hair smells like her shampoo and cheap plasticky glitter glue, and it is something he cannot imagine—would not be willing to imagine—living without.

"Well, you don't have to," he sighs into her hair. "I give up. I'll wear the costume."

He expects a reaction, of course—some gleeful clapping, some thanks, maybe even a little gloating. (In an ideal world, he thinks, he'd be repaid in kisses. Absolutely pinned to the bed by them, knees on either side of his hips, trapping him in her gravity.) But he does not expect the reaction he gets.

He almost leaps out of his skin when Rory bursts into tears again.

Her transition in holding her—shifting her from shoulder to chest—is automatic, requiring no rational thought, which is fortunate because his mind is taking on the sound of a blaring siren. Wrong, wrong, wrong, something is wrong.

He glances to the door as her gasping becomes muffled, listening for the sound of the television. Luckily, it seems like the hunt for the Great Pumpkin is well underway; Bug should be solidly distracted. Allowing his full attention to snap back to the room, to Rory.

Rory, who isn't like this and doesn't do this—not anymore, because they've learned, and he likes to think they've grown together. But if this is Rory and Rory doesn't do this, that means whatever it is—the reason she's melting down in his arms an hour before a kids' Halloween party—is big.

Really big.

Possibly building up for weeks, or longer. Months?

He races through his memories. Is it possible that she's been unhappy for months?

Jess can't help the way his stomach sinks.

"Rory? Talk to me, are you okay?" He wraps both arms around her, feeling the rapid fluttering of air going in and out. "What's happening? What did I do?" He hates himself for the last question, but it's ingrained. An instinct older than their relationship.

Her words come out on a series of gasps. "You didn't—do anything. God, sorry—I'm fine—it's just," she shudders, and his hands clench, fingers pressing into her tight, "baby hormones."

Jess freezes. What?

"Shit," she snuffles. It's like she's heard his unspoken question; more likely, she can feel the sudden straightening of his spine. "Sorry. There—there was a—plan and I'm—messing it up."

"A plan?"

He's feeling very detached from his body, all of the sudden, very much like he's missed some crucial step in the conversation.

"I just—it was Bug. She dug the pregnancy tests out of my bag, and you know how she can get. She wouldn't stop asking about the—the 'glowsticks.'"

He's sure, from the outside, he's wearing the ghost of a smile. But inside, he's floating. The sound of his pulse feels like it's coming from everywhere at once. "Okay," he says. A normal reaction, he thinks. Pregnancy tests.

Pregnancy tests.

"And when I explained, she was—she was so—"

And as she gasps for breath, his hand resumes its automatic circuit around her back, feeling the soft ridges of her ribs—the knobs of her spine—soon, if she's pregnant (which she is, Jesus Christ), she'll start filling out and the bones will get a little less pronounced. She'll soften everywhere again, only this time, he'll be allowed to touch her—

"—excited, I knew she'd tell you. So, I made her promise to keep it secret, and I told her it was a surprise for you." Rory hiccups, and it's a pitiful little sound. "She's been asking every day if it's time to tell you yet."

A surprise for you.

He tries to find his way back into his body—ground control to Major Tom. "When were you going to tell me?"

"After the party. That was Bug's idea. Trick or treat, you know?" As her own breaths slow, he finds his lungs following suit—oxygen ripples into him like clear water, sharpening everything. And so he notices that Rory sounds terrified. "But now it's out there and it's not the kind of news you can just—take back and be like, 'Hey, forget I said that!' So… surprise, I guess?"

In the moment, all the feelings seem to be overlapping. Joy and terror are foremost among them in a particular heady combination that reminds him a little of that first real kiss at the gas station, when she'd finally let her hands slide into his hair. In the moment, everything feels so powerfully strong that his brain doesn't have room for anything else, and so it empties itself out and all he can think to say is, "Were you going to tell me while I was dressed as a caterpillar?"

Rory hesitates, and then snorts out a giggle.

"Does that matter?"

He's about to insist it does—or admit that it doesn't—when there's a creak at the door. A little brown-haired head pokes in, followed by shimmering wings. "Mama!" Bug's brow is scrunched up with knowing. She's far too observant for her age. "Did you tell?"

"She sure did," he answers for Rory, who is surreptitiously wiping away more tears. "You get tired of Charlie Brown?"

Bug nods. He doesn't exactly blame her; he gets tired of the moralizing Peanuts in probably half that time.

"C'mere, then, I need to tell you something." He pats the bed beside him, but isn't remotely surprised when Bug scrambles right up into his lap, swinging an arm around his neck for good measure. He steadies her with one hand while the other is still pressed to Rory's back, and the world distills. Into those things he'd never felt, never imagined feeling, before they became a family.

Mostly the kind of panicked tenderness that comes from holding your whole fragile world in your hands.

A family. A baby. The information hardly feels real, but he repeats it like his favorite line of a song.

He takes a deep breath. "This is big news, Bug. You excited?"

Her head bobs again. The verbal thing comes and goes with her, and he grins at how like him she can be, even though they're the furthest thing from blood-related.

"Me too," he says, and when Rory sways a little, he turns to meet her eyes. A thick-throated swallow is the best he can manage, and he hopes that she hears what he isn't saying.

Bug squirms a little, and he turns his attention back to her.

"It's your surprise," she pronounces.

He nods. Clears his throat. "A good surprise. You did a great job keeping Mama's secret. Maybe too good of a job," he adds with a mock-glare at Rory, who sticks out her tongue. "You guys should be surprise party planners. Great poker faces."

Bug frowns. "You shouldn't poke people." Her highly-developed sense of justice in action. His arm around her squeezes tighter.

"You know you'll always be my girl," he tells her soberly, and for some reason, his chest is so tight he can barely get the words out. She's his miracle—the event and the being that removed the scales from his eyes. If not for her, he doesn't know where he would be. Where they would be.

She considers, head cocking. And then she nods. "Yeah, Big."

He swallows. "Good."

He hears Rory sniffling again, and she pulls Bug into her lap to have somewhere to hide the face, and he can almost see them from the outside: the three of them, the picture they make.

For a moment, they stay like that.

It's only when Rory's breath slows that they break their little three-way hug. "Big's gotta get dressed if we're gonna get to the party on time," she rasps, combing a hand through Bug's hair. "You wanna help me finish getting ready, honey?"

Bug agrees cheerfully, and then the Rories are off again, heading for the bathroom—but he catches the elder Rory's hand before she can go too far.

She pauses, looking back at him with a quirked brow and a smile so soft he could sink into it forever. Her eyes are red-rimmed and shining a living, oceanic blue.

Pushing up to his feet, he catches her jaw with his fingertips, pulling her in.

Kissing Rory makes time stop; it always has. When he was younger and a teenager with an angry heart and more questions than he could possibly find answers to, her lips had felt like a kind of safe harbor. A place he could go to where everything stood still, where all the roaring stopped. Nothing had to make sense there, because the normal rules didn't apply.

No time or space. Just them.

And even though he feels so far away from being that pissed off kid—a lifetime away, or several lifetimes—it's still the same now. Everything fades. Everything quiets.

Everything is them, and it always has been, and it always will be.

Breaking away, he dips his forehead to touch Rory's, warm skin pressing like book pages. The new best feeling each time he feels it.

He nudges, eyes angling to meet hers. Whispers, "Thank you, Rory."

Her answering smile is like a kid with a secret. She sparkles and glimmers and does all manner of inhuman things, because of the light and because he loves her. Loves her so badly it burns.

Her and Bug and—he swallows—whoever he's yet to meet.

She lands a quick kiss on his nose and turns away, making for the bathroom where Bug waits impatiently on the threshold. Eyes wide and wise, like she already knows everything is going to change.

Everything is going to change, he thinks, while his heart expands in his chest. They'll have to figure it out together.

But not just now. While Rory pulls back her hair, their daughter sits cross-legged on the floor, chattering about chrysalises, which is the theme of Rory's costume tonight. Bug pronounces it at least seven different ways, all of which are perfectly, wonderfully wrong. But she talks on and on about the life cycle of a butterfly while her own wings shed glitter into the air like snow.

Caterpillar. Chrysalis. Butterfly.

So, yes, in the end, he puts on the damn costume, and he can't even complain about it. Not really. He doesn't even want to.

In fact, he's the happiest goddamn caterpillar in New York City.

#JESS MARIANO IS A GOOD DAD. THAT'S THE POINT OF THIS STORY #it is. in fact. the point of everything always forever. good dad jess #literati fic #jess mariano #rory gilmore #jess x rory #gg posting #abbey.txt #my fic

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