I was listening to the song "Trusted" by Ben Folds and I couldn't turn my brain off. So, this is the result. It's a blatant rip off of the song, and it's probably poorly written since I just got it down as fast as I could, but, here you go. Hope it's not too terrible. And if it is...well, you have my sincerest apologies. ;)

Takes place after 4.21. Rory goes with Jess, and the result is disastrous.

(I don't own. Rated R, I guess.)

------------------------------------------Take Off ------------------------------------------

I dread the mornings. I always do now. She'll wake up angry at me for something I did to her in her dreams. Like they're some sort of Freudian clue.

I thought this time would be different. Stupid me and my fucking idealistic fantasies. Stupid me and my fucking idealistic fantasies of you. 'Cause that's all this was; a fantasy. How in the hell could I ever believe that this could work? You and me. The very thought of it was always too good to be true.

Maybe you're testing me. Poking the bear despite the warning signs, waiting for me to bite back. Or to leave.

But I won't because that's what you're expecting and I've always loved surprising you.

Last night, for some reason known only by you, you decided I wasn't repulsive. Later, when we're having sex for the first time in weeks, it occurs to me that (at that moment) we're as close as we can possibly be. And it makes me sad because I don't feel close to you at all.

Sometimes, I think maybe I should tell you these things that float around in my head. Other times I think I should just fight back, attack you verbally, give you an excuse to leave. I think that's what you've been looking for all along.

But I'm a coward and I couldn't stand to see you cry, even if you deserved it, even if they were fake tears. Those would be worse, reminding me of how fake our relationship has become. If you could call it that.

So, instead I'll write it all here in this leather bound journal, with the full knowledge that you will be reading these words in a matter of hours. Later tonight, when (you think) I am asleep, or tomorrow, when I am at work. Read as you have been doing for weeks.

(You're not as stealthy as you seem to think.)

If you need to leave, leave. Here's your out, your permission slip. Take it and take off.

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When he comes home the next night, she's sitting on the bed with the journal in her hands. Pale. Sickly looking. He resists the urge to step closer to her, to show the genuine concern he's feeling. It's not like she'd respond to his touch anyway.

"How long have you known that I was..." she trails off, not able to bring herself to say the words. Betraying your trust.

He shrugs, not making eye contact. "A few weeks."

"I..." her voice cracks and tears threaten to spill over. "I don't know why I...you were so far away," she tries to explain.

"You could've asked me," he offers. "You could've asked me anything."

"I didn't know how. I don't know how to talk to you." She picks at the worn comforter on the bed, making sure to look everywhere but at him, afraid of what she'll see in his face, his eyes. Afraid she'll she how much she's hurt him. She knows how much she has; she doesn't want to see it.

"You resent me," he decides. He's known it for a while now, but it hurts to say it. It hurts both of them.

"I don't," she cries, sniffling miserably. Sighing, she brings her hands up to her face, attempting to slow the cascade of tears. "I thought we were ready for this. I thought we were finally ready." She's talking to herself now, and when he moves away from the doorframe, she jumps, having forgotten he was there.

"Maybe we were." His voice is quiet. "Maybe this just isn't supposed to happen for us."

"I want it to. More than anything, Jess, I want this."

"Could've fooled me."

She meets his eyes, silently urging him to move closer to her, to sit next to her, to wrap his arm around her and kiss her on the forehead like he used to do. But she knows she doesn't deserve that. She doesn't deserve any of it, including him.

"You need to go home," he says sadly.

"I want this to be my home." She's pleading now, not with him, he doesn't think, but with herself.

He almost laughs at her sudden change of heart. "But it's not."

They don't say much more to each other after that. The conversation wanes and he mumbles something about taking a shower. The sound of the water droplets beating the tile floor pull Rory out of her stupor, and she comes thisclose to joining him, suddenly feel lonely.

When he comes back into their room, she's curled up on her side of the mattress, a little ball facing the window. Like she's hiding from him.

The sight breaks his heart.

He slides in next to her and she tenses, signaling that she's still awake. Keeping a safe distance, he lays on his back, studying the ceiling, then the cobwebs in the corners, and, finally, the back of her head.

"I love you," he whispers, not certain whether he wants her to hear or not. But she does and the sincerity of his voice creates a magnetic pull, forcing her to roll over to face him. Even though she doesn't want to. Not really.

Her voice has left her throat, and, unable to form any words, she kisses him. Softly. Timidly. Just a quick peck, followed by intense eye contact from under thick lashes.

(And they're as close as they can possibly be).

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(crawls under a rock, never to be seen again.) How bad was it? Please, be oh-so honest!