A/N: The Twilight-fic I'm working on is stuck in Writer's block-hell. I hope this little Gilmore Girls-oneshot can get my creative juices flowing. I wrote this one some time ago, just one of those things that sort of write themselves once you acknowledge the fact that they're there. I hope you'll like it.

Disclaimer: Do not own. Amy Sherman-Palladino does. I do not make money off of this. Call my bank, they can confirm it.

Crash and Burn

Venice Beach, California. Blinding sun, sandy beaches, crowded boardwalks and old dudes selling hemp hats. Jess doubted there was any other place in the continental U.S where he'd look more out of place. This was nothing like the environment on the east coast.

And that was his salvation, the only reason why he hadn't left (yet).

California was a nice little air bubble that granted him the briefest break to breathe before drowning in the effed up chaos that was life. Jess felt as if he was temporarily free of his burdens. Jimmy and Sasha didn't ask questions, not important ones, at least. Lily ignored him for the most part, sticking out her head from the most unlikely nooks and crannies to hush at him. The dogs didn't attack him anymore.

His demons from the east coast would never find him here. And if they did, if they caught up to him and he crashed and burned... Well... There was always the Road; a glorious network of anonymity and crossroads. Kerouac would approve.

But not yet, not if there was any other option. For the moment, Jess enjoyed his stay in this wannabe-utopia. The couch he slept on was not half-bad. The guy who worked at the Inferno was okay, and told him lots of whacky stories about Jimmy and pickles. Skateboarding entered his life again. People began recognizing him; "Jimmy M's boy, walkin' around with the leather jacket, his head in a new book every other day. Good kid, bit of a temper."

He didn't notice it at first. It took him four months to see that the east coast had finally caught up with him (or maybe it had been there with him all along?). His old duffelbag gave in one day when he was hauling it through the door to go to a nearby laundromat. Out fell his entire life, and it was then he saw it. Among his t-shirts and jeans and dog eared pocketbooks, he had a little Rory-collection: things that reminded him of her, things he realized he had bought or kept to show her in case he'd ever see her again, and paper upon paper with scribblings he had no memory of jotting down. It was an unintentional shrine dedicated to his failure.

He crashed.

In the backyard, he found an old barrel which Sasha used to burn leaves and shrubbery in every time her so called garden got too out of control. Jess dumped every little memorabilia in it: a take-out menu from an Indian restaurant, a hemp hat he'd bought from the hemp hat guy, a business card from a bookshop two blocks away, a single white seashell; everything except the notes. For reasons he'd never be able to fully explain, he kept the notes. He found a box of matches on the porch, pulled out a match, and flicked it a couple of times until the little wooden stick caught fire with a fizz. Without hesitation, he threw the burning match into the barrel. The small flame found fuel in the take-out menu, flared up and devoured the rest. His life, as it had been, went up in flames.

He burned.

Jess put the barrel back when he was sure the fire had died out. Everything was reduced to ash, save for the seashell, which looked as though nothing had happened. He ignored the glaringly obvious metaphor, and returned inside.

But California lost its charm, its protective aura that day. The bubble burst and it was time to move on. He pawned off his skateboard to some surfer down by the beach, packed his things and left a note for Jimmy, Sasha and Lily. He never did figure out how to say a proper goodbye.

Down by the bus station, he took out the notes he had opted not to burn, and read them. Rory. She just wouldn't leave him alone, and yet he had to leave her. Jess looked up at the Departures-board, and saw the Road calling to him. But even more strongly than the vague promise of restless travelling, something else called out to him. He hurried over to the ticket booth.

"One-way ticket to New York."

He couldn't return to her, but he could go back east. The east coast couldn't haunt him if he was already there. He could hide in between the stinging memories and seek refuge in the nameless, faceless masses. Simple logic. Simple evasive maneuver. Given the choice between fight or flight, Jess would still chose flight for a long time ahead.

Even if it meant he had to run from himself.

A/N: Reviews make me very, very happy! :)