"initial" - lauren graham/lorelai gilmore - pg
Title: Initial
Author: Nia
Rating: PG
Fandom: Gilmore Girls + RPFS
Pairing: Lauren Graham/Lorelai Gilmore
Summary: "Because when she wobbles one-footed taking off her black flowered slingbacks that you'd never wear, it's your wobble, and when you use her bathroom you steal her monogrammed towels."
Initial
Your initials are the same.
You think of this as the starting point, the place where you both begin. From two simple curves, she sets off with a house smaller than yours, a coffee addiction and a love of fuzz and yellow. She grew up with the mother you never wanted. When you were still climbing trees, she was putting on mascara in a moving car. "Flawlessly," she says, with pride. Her words are sibilant. You don't talk like that.
They say every girl needs a mother, but she's the one who ended up pregnant at sixteen, and you managed your way to Barnard without so much as a first kiss. She can't believe it, but then she can. "If you're not big on boys," she says, looking you up and down, but she doesn't look you in the eye. She's here with you, after all. So where did a mother get her?
You: from your two initials, you got an Irish name and the freckles to go with it. You grew up with your father, and the rest of your family came later, but you like it because you got to put your feet on the couch. You wear your hair straight more than she does, and you don't play games. Sometimes, when your eyes are closed, you feel her fingertip on your nose: counting freckles she wishes she had, but she'd never tell you so.
There is more to her than meets the eye. She is all giggles and light, but under her skin in your hands you have never once felt her relax. There is so much of you that she wishes she had, and she knows it vaguely: running wild on Long Island. Your fifteenth birthday. You imagine yourself in your Short Hills Stable '83 t-shirt--no, she says, it was Pinky Tuscadero. A Pinky Tuscadero t-shirt with a rip at the hem. Her mother hated it, and you know that vaguely too: the way it felt to slip a finger through the hole, so very very nervous, even though you've never been nervous in your life.
You both have your scars: she never got over being nervous, and you know the hard way that people up and leave. You wonder why you're with her, because she's the leaving type, but then you wonder why she's with you, because you're the type that won't let go. It's dangerous for both of you. Both of you. Because when she wobbles one-footed taking off her black flowered slingbacks that you'd never wear, it's your wobble, and when you use her bathroom you steal her monogrammed towels.
When you're over her on all fours in bed, sometimes you ask. Demand. "Say your name," you whisper, down and into dark, and she looks up with eyes joyous and shining and empty, as if something is missing--you are missing, maybe. She looks up into the air above you and whispers back, "Lorelai Gilmore," and the curve of L and the round of G are yours. All yours.
Author: Nia
Rating: PG
Fandom: Gilmore Girls + RPFS
Pairing: Lauren Graham/Lorelai Gilmore
Summary: "Because when she wobbles one-footed taking off her black flowered slingbacks that you'd never wear, it's your wobble, and when you use her bathroom you steal her monogrammed towels."
Initial
Your initials are the same.
You think of this as the starting point, the place where you both begin. From two simple curves, she sets off with a house smaller than yours, a coffee addiction and a love of fuzz and yellow. She grew up with the mother you never wanted. When you were still climbing trees, she was putting on mascara in a moving car. "Flawlessly," she says, with pride. Her words are sibilant. You don't talk like that.
They say every girl needs a mother, but she's the one who ended up pregnant at sixteen, and you managed your way to Barnard without so much as a first kiss. She can't believe it, but then she can. "If you're not big on boys," she says, looking you up and down, but she doesn't look you in the eye. She's here with you, after all. So where did a mother get her?
You: from your two initials, you got an Irish name and the freckles to go with it. You grew up with your father, and the rest of your family came later, but you like it because you got to put your feet on the couch. You wear your hair straight more than she does, and you don't play games. Sometimes, when your eyes are closed, you feel her fingertip on your nose: counting freckles she wishes she had, but she'd never tell you so.
There is more to her than meets the eye. She is all giggles and light, but under her skin in your hands you have never once felt her relax. There is so much of you that she wishes she had, and she knows it vaguely: running wild on Long Island. Your fifteenth birthday. You imagine yourself in your Short Hills Stable '83 t-shirt--no, she says, it was Pinky Tuscadero. A Pinky Tuscadero t-shirt with a rip at the hem. Her mother hated it, and you know that vaguely too: the way it felt to slip a finger through the hole, so very very nervous, even though you've never been nervous in your life.
You both have your scars: she never got over being nervous, and you know the hard way that people up and leave. You wonder why you're with her, because she's the leaving type, but then you wonder why she's with you, because you're the type that won't let go. It's dangerous for both of you. Both of you. Because when she wobbles one-footed taking off her black flowered slingbacks that you'd never wear, it's your wobble, and when you use her bathroom you steal her monogrammed towels.
When you're over her on all fours in bed, sometimes you ask. Demand. "Say your name," you whisper, down and into dark, and she looks up with eyes joyous and shining and empty, as if something is missing--you are missing, maybe. She looks up into the air above you and whispers back, "Lorelai Gilmore," and the curve of L and the round of G are yours. All yours.